Cotidie
by wobbear
Summary: Months after Cotidie originally ended, here’s an epilogue – what happened after the ball game. Rating is now M. GSR.
1. Every day

**Cotidie**

**Author: **wobbear

**Rating:** T  
**Disclaimer:** The story, rambling and ridiculous as it may well be, is mine. All the clichés, mistakes and non sequiturs - mine again. The characters within, however, are not.  
**Spoilers?** _Grave Danger_. Some _Way to Go _will sneak in at the end.  
**A/N **(1) I've often wondered what happened in the immediate aftermath of _Grave Danger_. This is what resulted - my first, and very likely my last, fic.  
(2) Not very vital hat point: Grissom's hat first appeared in season 6, but it suits my purposes to think he'd been wearing it for some time before that (just not on camera!).  
This is a WIP, but it's pretty much all written, so updates can be regular.  
**Summary:** Things were changing. Every day there was another clue. GSR.

**

* * *

Chapter 1: Every day **

He stood at the edge of the crater, hands stuffed into his pockets. All around him, the dance of evidence collection swirled: CSIs spotted potential evidence, crouched, placed numbered identifiers, snapped photos, then bagged and tagged, signing over the seals. The brightness cast by the portable crime scene lights was dimming, as another Nevada sun edged its way slowly up into the sky.

A casual observer might think he was supervising the scene. But he didn't move, and he never spoke. Not one gesture towards a speck of possible trace, not a word of encouragement or direction.

His eyes, nearly grey in the pre-dawn light, stared blankly over the busy investigators. Bristles were growing in above and below the closely-trimmed beard; the dark, saggy eye bags and slumped shoulders confirmed that Gil Grissom had been up way too long.

He'd almost been blown up twice in 24 hours, and behind his stoic façade he was crumbling. The adrenaline rush of urgency to find his abducted CSI had long since ebbed away, leaving behind an empty shakiness in his limbs and gut.

Twenty yards away, Sara Sidle was sitting on the open tailgate of a Crime Lab Denali, swinging her legs gently as she munched a granola bar. Her shiny silver kit sat next to her, all compartments clipped shut. She too was sagging with weariness, but her eyes were sharply focussed on the lonely figure in front of her - her … what? Mentor, boss, unrequited love? Check box (d) for all of the above.

Greg was long gone, sent home by Grissom to recover from the multiple shift they'd all pulled.

The Brass man was somewhere about, chivying along the police cadets who were searching the outer reaches of the former plant nursery.

Ecklie, reverting to type after his unexpectedly sensitive reactions during the crisis, had scurried off eagerly to update the sheriff and do media relations - as he'd said, someone had to front up on TV. It was sad, Sara reflected, that his was the face the Crime Lab showed to the world. Couldn't be helped. Ordinarily Cath was happy to step up to the mike, but of course she and Warrick had gone to the hospital with Nick.

And why was Sara still there?

Because Grissom was.

Still standing at the edge of the hole where Nick's temporary tomb had been.

Even if he wasn't aware, even if he didn't want it, she couldn't quell the concern that tugged at her heart, the worry that churned in her stomach.

"I want my guys back", he'd said to Ecklie. The ambulance had long since driven away; an hour later Grissom remained rooted to the spot.

Folding the snack wrapper neatly into her jacket pocket, Sara leaned forward, shifting her weight, and dropped from the tailgate down onto her feet. Rolling her shoulders and circling her head in a futile effort to ease the stiffness, she plodded over to Grissom.

Stopping beside him, she glanced at her day shift colleagues, and then said, "Hey."

He started at her voice.

Her hand moved to his shoulder, squeezing gently. "Hey," she repeated, "there's nothing more for us to do here. Let's go check on Nick and then head home. Don't a shower and sleep sound good?"

His eyes flickered. He heaved in a big breath, letting it out in a long, long sigh. "I know, I do know, but I can't seem to move. I--I keep thinking how close we were to losing him."

"Yes, but he's safe now. He's OK, or at least he will be. C'mon, let's go see for ourselves at Desert Palm."

Thinking back, Sara realised it had all started on that peculiar day, when she'd sniped at Catherine, talked back to Ecklie and ended up - she could still barely believe it - with Grissom clutching her hand as she told him her story.

They hadn't really spoken about it since, although a few oblique references had passed between them.

But still, something was different. At first she had refused to believe in it; she'd been disappointed too many times before. But she had been well taught, and the paramount principle was "follow the evidence". Every day there was another clue.

One day she'd catch him looking at her with a soft expression and, instead of immediately averting his eyes, he'd hold the contact.

Another time she'd find herself teasing him, and Grissom giving back as good as he got.

Or he'd escort her through a doorway, his hand just brushing the small of her back.

Or he'd come up with another pathetic pun that she couldn't help giggling at.

Or …

Many little words and gestures, each nearly nothing on its own, but when taken together they made for a new comfort zone. It was friendly, but with definitely un-platonic prospects. For now that was enough; it was plenty. She'd never thought she'd revel in feeling comfortable, with Grissom of people, but there it was - warm, fuzzy, quite possibly ridiculous, and it felt great.

He had even, inadvertently, solved one of those little conundrums about which she'd always wondered: how did a guy who worked nights and slept during the day have such a tanned face? No question, he wasn't the type to roast himself in a tanning clinic. And any time he worked in the sun he wore a cap or that hat - Greg had secretly named him "Amish Grissom", but was wise enough not to say it in his supervisor's hearing.

Returning to the lab one morning from a desert crime scene west of the city, they had been driving into a stunning Vegas sunrise. The ride had been mostly silent, both reflecting on the last horrible days of their young victim's life - a six year old boy, tied up and left in a sack, concealed between boulders out at Red Rock Canyon. He'd been reported missing by his first grade teacher after a week's absence from school. It turned out that his mother had wanted to start her new life in Albuquerque without him, and the media vultures had greedily ripped into the "bound and bagged" story.

Into the quiet, Grissom exhaled a gusty breath and remarked, "I love seeing the sun rise."

Sara was driving, and snuck a glance at him. A wistful smile emerged on his face, and he continued, "It's just, ah, sometimes it's the only good thing after an awful shift."

"I know what you mean," she said. "I see a gorgeous sunrise and it somehow reminds me there still is beauty in the world."

Grissom opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words came out. Then he swallowed, gulping a little, and started over.

When he got home in time, he recounted, he liked to sit out on his deck watching the sun rise over the eastern hills - winding down with a Nevada Gold and the mellow tones of James Taylor.

"Y'know, I've never been to the Carolinas, but sometimes I like to imagine myself on an Outer Banks beach, leaving sandy footprints at the edge of the ocean, far away from the horrors of the Vegas night ..."

He hesitated, then added, "Occasionally I drink more than one beer, and drift off to sleep. I don't wear hats at home, and I hate sticky sunscreen, so I end up roasted."

Sara decided to go easy on him and just picked up on the music. "_Carolina in my mind_, huh? I thought you were more a classic rock kinda guy, Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, that sort of thing."

"Horses for courses," was all Grissom would say, suddenly rattled by his rambling. As abruptly as he'd started speaking, he stopped. He clamped his lips closed, as if to prevent any further slips.

_Everything was relative, of course._ Grissom would never be an in-your-face extrovert like Catherine. Anyway, Sara shuddered at that thought.

How bizarre that finally telling him her terrible, long-kept secret should turn out to be the way to crack open the door to Grissom's inner self.

_Or was it?_

He guarded his private life so closely that perhaps he was one of the few people who _could _appreciate what a giant leap it was for Sara to finally break down her barriers.

_Whatever._ Over-thinking, like over-talking, rarely did her any good.

Now, Grissom was having his own troubles, and Sara wanted to help. This wasn't a novel feeling, but what _was_ new was the real possibility that he might let her.

TBC


	2. Getting closer

**Cotidie**

**Author: **wobbear

**Rating:** T

**Disclaimer:** The story is mine. The characters within, however, are not.

**Spoilers?** _Grave Danger_. Some _Way to Go _will sneak in at the end.

**A/N **Reviewers, I thank you for your kind words. This chapter is a bit shorter, because ... just because.

**

* * *

Chapter 2: Getting closer**

Grissom hadn't budged.

She had to try again. Perhaps pretending she wasn't trying to help him would work. She launched an appeal to his protective nature.

"Griss, please come with me. I have bad memories of hospitals, but I want to see Nick."

At that he kinked his right eyebrow.

_Oooohkay - he's not so far gone he can't see through my ploy. _

Never let it be said that Sara Sidle didn't use all of the weapons in her armory. Time for the pleading brown puppy dog eyes. "What about Nick? You want to see he's being properly cared for, don't you?"

"Sara ...". He was toying with his lower lip, tugging it between his teeth, incisors worrying at it. "Yes, of course. Thanks for staying, and for dragging me away."

Grissom patted his jacket and pants pockets haphazardly, finally coming up with the keys to the Denali. "Are you OK to drive? I'm not sure I can see straight right now."

"No problem."

The morning rush-hour was in full swing, or rather that segment of heavy traffic that occurs in Vegas between 6 and 9 am. It was a moving feast; traffic delays were pretty much guaranteed whatever time you ventured out.

It was quiet in the truck. Grissom reclined his seat and closed his eyes, but any idea that he was catching a nap was dispelled when he murmured directions to the specialists' parking lot at the hospital - from where, he said, they could bypass the cavernous foyer, and gain quick access to the Intensive Care Unit.

Sara decided not to question his sources, and simply followed the quiet instructions.

The nearly clean off-white walls of the ICU, the purposeful sotto voce conversations of the nursing staff and the muted electronic beeping of the monitors were a balm after all the rushing, dirt and clamor of Nick's rescue. But the calm also brought home just how grubby and shattered they felt.

No need to flash IDs, Sara's CSI windbreaker was identification enough. The middle-aged nurse on reception smiled in recognition and pointed down the short corridor. "Turn left at the end, Bed 3A. Just a few minutes, OK?"

Nodding their thanks, Sara followed as Grissom led the way. As they turned the corner they encountered Catherine, talking on a pay phone. She saw them and said into the handset, "Just a sec, Linz."

"Hi, guys, just in time. They gave him something to help him sleep and it'll be kicking in soon. But he'll be pleased to see you."

As they rounded the curtain, a mummy came into view. Or a quasi-mummy - Nick was covered head to toe in white gauze, with just a small aperture for his face. Gooey white ointment oozed onto his cheeks, indicating that it was slathered over the unseen rest of him as well. The head of the bed was raised, putting him in a semi-sitting position.

Warrick was draped over the sole visitor's chair, one hand gently patting Nick's bandaged right forearm. Seeing movement out the corner of his vision, he looked up. "Hi, Grissom, Sara. It's supposed to be two max at a time, so I'll go in search of caffeine."

"Thanks, Warrick."

"Later." He flung a casual salute toward them as he ambled off.

Nick turned his head to greet the newcomers. The slight movement of his mouth was probably intended to be a grin.

Sara took up station at the foot of the bed, gesturing Grissom to the vacated seat. He eased himself down and leaned closer to the bedside. Eyes crinkling in an almost smile, he mumbled, "Eh, uh, Nicky, good to see you."

"Yeah, Grissom, it's great to see you." Nick's voice was croaky but audible. "Thank you. I--um, just thank you."

"It was my pleasure, Pancho." His voice faltered on the nickname, and he turned away, ostensibly to check out the monitors.

Nick's eyes wandered down the bed to Sara, who summoned up her biggest possible smile and gently tweaked his left foot. "Hey, Nick, I thought I was the one who got too wrapped up in my work."

It was a feeble joke, but he graced it with a comeback. "Yeah, when I get back to the lab it'll be 'The Mummy Returns'."

Grissom visibly gathered himself and turned back to the bed. Grasping the hand that was free of IV lines, he leaned in again to look Nick in the eye. "You were wrong, you know. You never disappointed me."

Nick blinked, opened then closed his mouth, blinked again, and ended up pressing his lips tightly together; tears glistened in his eyes.

"No, you never did," Grissom reiterated. Shaking his head briefly, he looked anxiously in Sara's direction.

Recognising the plea for a quick exit, she feigned a fearful look over her shoulder and said to Nick, "The nurses are going to ban us if we stay too long. Get some rest now, and we'll come by again tomorrow."

Grissom rose, patting Nick on the shoulder, and managed a tight, "Sleep well". Sara added, "See you later, Nick."

They made their way silently back to the parking lot, donning sunglasses, and resumed their previous seats. Grissom sat with head bowed and shoulders rounded, flexing his hands repeatedly on his thighs, slow breaths moving in and out of his partly open mouth.

She pointed the truck in the direction of Henderson, and Grissom's townhouse. It was, she mused, a good thing she'd been so long yearning for her unrequited lover that she remembered precisely where he lived, despite having been there only once before. Even then, Warwick had been driving - when a passenger, she normally paid scant attention to the route. But going to Grissom's place, of course, she remembered.

It wasn't until she turned into his road that Grissom noticed his surroundings. His hand went straight to his pants pocket, and he withdrew a key chain. As soon as the vehicle had rolled to a halt, he was unbuckled and out the door. He started to move away, then sluggishly whirled around.

"I'm sorry, Sara, I'm being rude. I just need to ..." he trailed off.

"You need to have a shower, something to eat and at least ten hours' sleep."

He rubbed his hands over bleary eyes and stubbly cheeks before replying. "I'm too tired to eat or wash, I'm just going to bed."

"OK - then call me when you're up. We can eat together."

"Uh, yeah ... I'll call you." His very last dregs of energy had drained away.

"Sleep, Grissom."

"You too," he tossed over his shoulder as he trudged up to his door, fumbling with the alarm remote. She watched as he unlocked and opened the door. A sudden piercing electronic squawk, further fumbling and then blessed peace. He fashioned a sketchy wave and went inside.

"One down, one to go," Sara muttered as she reversed out of the parking spot and turned toward home.

TBC


	3. Faster than a rollercoaster?

**Cotidie**

**Author: **wobbear  
**Rating:** T (Teen – mostly for a few crime scene descriptions)  
**Disclaimer:** The story is mine. The characters within, however, are not.  
**Spoilers?** _Grave Danger_ in particular. Anything to the end of season 6 is fair game.  
**A/N **Reviewers, thank you again. I hope the section dividers work OK - I've fiddled with them more than enough!  
Thanks to **desertwind** for helping with the roller coaster research.

**

* * *

Chapter 3: Faster than a roller coaster? **

When Grissom woke, it was tomorrow.

Only just, twenty after midnight. He did a double take at the clock radio, incredulous that he could've slept for more than half a day. He had a dream-like recollection of being woken at some stage by nature's call, and a glass out of place on the bathroom counter suggested he'd also had a drink - he had no memory of that. He shrugged; it didn't matter.

He was awake now - well, sort of. His limbs felt loose and lethargic, clinging to sleep, and they weren't keen on his brain telling them it was wake-up time. It was a curious, floppy sensation like moving in water, where each action takes twice the effort on dry land. He shook his head a couple of times, and then wondered why - clearly there was no water to shake out of his ears. Likely it was a normal physiological response to extreme fatigue, but he didn't care to ponder it.

A long steamy shower later, he peered in the mirror while brushing his teeth. Looking back at him from the patch he'd wiped on the bathroom mirror was ... a very fuzzy face. Grissom grimaced. Some carefully targeted shaving and judicious clipping later, he smirked at his freshly-groomed reflection.

Grissom wandered through to the kitchen in his robe and started up a pot of coffee. He cast his eyes about, wondering what was amiss. It took a while before he realised he was usually at work at this time.

Soon he was sipping too-hot coffee and flipping through his mail. Gradually a gnawing feeling in his stomach made itself known, and he reckoned it was more than 40 hours since he'd last eaten.

_Eating ... what was it again about eating?_

_Ah, Sara. They were to eat together._

Grissom snagged his cell phone from the big bowl on the table by the front door, confirmed it was on and pressed speed-dial #1.

_What? What was he doing? _

He jabbed "end", jarring his finger in the process. Just like that, he was fully alert, heart racing, muscles taut.

This was uncharted territory; he risked falling off the edge of the earth. The steady scientist part of him knew the world was round, but the emotional infant in him still needed persuasion.

_He was voluntarily calling Sara, not for work._ He phoned her all the time for professional purposes; this time the reason just happened to be personal.

The scientist part got a grip, and decided to consider some variables.

_What if she's asleep?_ Unlikely, this was Sara.

_What if she's forgotten what she'd said about eating?_ Very possible, in Grissom's estimation, given that he nearly had.

_What if …?_

_Jeepers - what if whatever. _A quiet voice of reason subdued his trepidations. If he wanted to speak to her, he was going have to make the call. This was what he wanted, it was just new and he'd get used to it.

Three deep breaths later, he picked up his cell again and made the call. "Sara, hi, it's ... me," he said, twigging just in time that caller ID had already announced him.

* * *

He'd always tried to lock his secret longings for Sara inside a metaphorical safe, which must never be opened. But Pandora's fabled box had nothing on Ms Sara Sidle. It was always a struggle, and he'd frequently failed. His subsequent self-flagellation generally involved sequestering himself in his office with the hated paperwork, emerging only to bark out assignments or snap at lab techs. He couldn't let himself think those tantalizing thoughts, and everyone else got to suffer too. 

Then, on that dreadful, wonderful day when he'd realised how much Sara was struggling, he'd gone against years of self-imposed distance and insisted that she speak to him. And, in the end, she had - hard as it was for them both. Words eluded him, but for once his heart told him how to act. Quietly clasping her hand, confirming she wasn't alone, had turned out to be the right thing to do.

Before, he'd always felt uneasy around her, desperately trying not to get sucked into her whirlpool. The whirlpool of her attraction. _Sarah as Siren - what **had** he been thinking!_ She'd seemed so daunting, so distracting.

Their chemistry was still strong, to him at least. But now she was accepting, friendly, but not pushing; not asking for what he didn't yet know how to give. Now he felt ... more relaxed - in Sara's presence. To be sure, there was still an under-current of nervy excitement and the forever present tug of attraction, but it felt ... good.

* * *

"Grissom! You just woke up?" Sara sounded ... surprised, pleased. 

"Yeah, about 45 minutes ago."

"Wow, you slept more than 12 hours? I was thinking that maybe you weren't going to call ..."

He admitted with an embarrassed chuckle, "Well, I was thinking that too." He could almost hear her grinning at the other end.

"So ... you're up. You have to be hungry," she continued. "All I had in the house was one small banana, and I'm guessing you haven't been to the store lately either."

"You're right, well, I'm starving and have no food, but I'm not up up. Uh, I mean, I'm not dressed yet." _Oh, super suave, Gil_. He cringed at his clumsiness.

Apart from the diner near the lab, the only food establishment Grissom visited on a semi-regular basis was Hank's in the Green Valley Ranch complex - an excellent steakhouse, also famous for its Martinis. He had sufficient sensitivity not to suggest it to a vegetarian. Even the name made it a bad idea. In any case, it was a _real_ restaurant: he wasn't at all certain he was ready to go somewhere like that with Sara. It would be almost like ... like ... a date. Not that he didn't _want_ to go out with Sara in that way, it was just that ... he needed to work up to it. _Oh heck, maybe she thought this meal was going to be a 'date'. _

_Gulp. _

Grabbing the bull by the horns he inquired, "Where would you like to go?"

Meanwhile, Sara was wondering whether Grissom had gone back to sleep. "Uh-um," she blurted in surprise, and he felt strangely relieved. But she was made of sterner stuff, and launched into it. "There's a 24/7 sushi house I like. It's a bit off the beaten track, but the food's wonderful. You do eat sushi, right?

"Y--yeah, that sounds great." 24/7 didn't sound like too datey a place. "So, how do I get th--". Grissom stopped. _Why not?_ Now he knew it wasn't a date date, he felt much more at ease. "How about I pick you up and you can direct me?"

He was inordinately proud of his quick thinking. She'd driven him home, he should do this. He _could_ do this, in fact he _wanted_ to do this. Ending his silent self-congratulation, he added, "I'll throw on some clothes and come on over, OK? Say, 20 minutes."

"Sweet. See you soon, Griss."

* * *

Dressing completed in record time, Grissom was backing his car out of his garage five minutes later. 

He'd given Sara a ride home a few times on the way back from double-shift crime scenes, and had actually been inside on that fateful day after her blow-up with Catherine and subsequent suspension. The route was imprinted in his directional memory; driving there now, most of his mind was far from the road.

Things he had held so close for so long no longer carried their former weight. Truth be told, he thought himself very weak in the face of her strength, what she had endured. But where before he had floundered in an emotional sea of helpless insecurity, now he understood he had nothing to lose except his loneliness. If Sara could be so strong, he could at least try.

He still didn't have a clue how to act around her, but he was finding himself acting anyway. His inhibitions, which previously crippled him, now caused just the occasional wobble.

En route to Sara's apartment, Grissom glimpsed the Stratosphere tower, and rued the de-commissioning of the "High Roller" coaster that used to wrap around its top. It wasn't the greatest coaster he'd ever ridden, but whirling around at night catching the lights of the Strip _had_ been special. He refused to buy into the "life is a rollercoaster" metaphor, but that didn't stop him making good use of his season's pass to the Canyon Blaster at Circus Circus. The anticipation of the initial climb, followed the swooping exhilaration of the first descent, then successive, repeated rises and falls fading into a tingly breathless feeling as the cars rolled to a stop - it never failed to thrill him, to take his mind off his troubles.

Often he'd used a coaster ride to distract him from the temptation that was Sara. Now he found himself wondering if he could persuade her to take a ride with him. _Huh_.

Admittedly, he still felt some apprehension, but an irrepressible rise of hope was edging it out, softening it: hope for their future. Not as rapid as a roller coaster rush, but holding so much more promise. He was determined to make that feeling grow.

* * *

Sara must have been watching for him out her window, and she came out as he was getting out of the car. Too quick for him, she opened the passenger door, whistling at his Mercedes. "Nice car, Grissom!" 

"Yes, it's a classic car, solid and well-engineered." Even to himself, he sounded stodgy.

"So it's just a sensible investment then?" Sara's raised brow showed she wasn't convinced. "Plenty of cheaper cars would meet that description. Admit it, you like it." She was standing inside the angle made by the open car door, arms folded on the roof and eyes twinkling with amusement.

Facing her from the other side of the car, Grissom scratched his beard and squinted at her through slitted eyes. He cocked his head and added, "It stays comfortable even on a long road trip."

"Hmm," replied Sara, drumming her fingers on the roof.

"Okay, yes, it drives like a dream and I am rather fond of its lines."

She nodded, and remarked, "That wasn't so hard, was it?" She beamed a bright grin and got into the car. Shrugging, Grissom followed suit.

"You're allowed to just like things, you know. It doesn't always have to be rational."

Grissom nodded slowly, gaze fixed on the steering wheel. "I'm finally starting to get that." He flashed a shy smile at her and started the car. "So, where to?"

TBC

* * *

A/N: _Hank's_ exists. Can't vouch for the martinis, but they have some very tasty pinot grigio. Oh, and steak! 


	4. Go on, ask her

**Cotidie**

**Author: **wobbear

**Rating:** T (Teen – mostly for a few crime scene descriptions)  
**Disclaimer:** The story is mine. The characters within, however, are not.  
**Spoilers?** _Grave Danger_ in particular. Anything to the end of season 6 is fair game.  
**A/N** The sushi place is remarkably like one I visited recently in Auckland, NZ, a looooong way away from Vegas. Even if there's nothing like it in Las Vegas, I reckon there should be. Next chapter likely over the weekend. Reviewers, I thank you.

**Chapter 4: Go on, ask her **

"Sushi-a-go-go" was a basic establishment, but business was thriving if the crowd at 2 am was anything to go by. Customers lined up, grabbed a plastic lidded box when they reached the pile, then self-served from the vast range of sushi - mostly the roll type, but also some nigiri sushi. Vegetarian options included several choices with avocado - more Californian than Japanese, but delicious nevertheless. At the cash register wasabi and pickled ginger were offered, a takeout cup of miso soup or soda could be added, then the choices were tallied and the total rung up.

Sara was leading the way and had cash ready, much to Grissom's dismay. "Sara, I want to get this."

"Sure, go ahead, pay for yours," she replied.

The sideways wiggle of his lips confirmed that wasn't what he'd meant, but he decided to live with it. Instead he gathered two pairs of chopsticks and a wad of paper napkins, and paid for his selections.

They found places on a bench by one of the picnic-type tables outside under a big awning, though at that hour there was no sun to need shade from. For a few moments silence reigned as they answered their bodies' calls for sustenance. Once his worst hunger pangs had abated, Grissom propped his chopsticks on the open box and tested the miso soup. It was still a bit hot to drink.

He looked up from his cup and saw he was being watched. "Y'know," he said, "Not everyone would eat sushi for breakfast."

"But then this is making up for about six meals," said Sara. "So there are several lunches and dinners in there too. Besides," she continued, "I've never got the hang of eating breakfast food before work. Somehow cereal or a bagel don't cut it when I'm facing a graveyard shift."

Grissom nodded in agreement and remembered some news. "Hey, I spoke to Catherine on my way over; she said Ecklie arranged some CSIs from Reno to cover our shifts for a couple of nights. Nick's doing alright; if he keeps on improving they'll move him into a regular ward in a day or so."

"I can't remember the last time I had two nights off in a row," Sara mused. "What _am_ I going to do with all this free time?" She didn't look too worried about it.

"Well, for starters," replied Grissom, "There's visiting Nick, to see how he's going. Cath said they're not being difficult about visiting hours in ICU as long as it's in daylight hours and Nick doesn't get woken if he's asleep. And no more than twenty minutes a visit." He carefully didn't mention his hope that they could again go to the hospital together.

"It's still two at time though, isn't it?" asked Sara. A silent nod was her reply. "Going about 9 am would be OK, shouldn't it? Do you have any plans until then?

Quickly, before he could think himself out of it, Grissom suggested, "What about a movie?"

"You mean watch a DVD?" she asked, scrunching her face unenthusiastically.

"No, a proper movie, in a movie theater. The Wonderland has all-night sessions, and shows mostly shorter, old films - which means it shouldn't be too long until the next one starts." His eyes lit on a discarded _Las Vegas Sun_ on the next-door table. Snagging it, he turned to the entertainment pages. Sarah wriggled closer, leaning in to scan the pages in the dim light outside the sushi shop. She was so close he could smell her hair; he blinked to concentrate on the paper.

"That's ... a coincidence," remarked Grissom. "They're showing _Strangers on a Train_. Did you ever hear about that case Catherine and I worked at that theater?"

"Nope - tell me about it on the way," said Sara, gathering up the remains of their meals and depositing them in a trash can.

And so it happened that they made up 25 percent of the Wonderland's audience in the early hours. He insisted on buying their tickets, and she let him, instead making a bee-line for the snack counter to get supplies of popcorn and diet sodas. They shared the food and drank separate drinks, all the while pretending they weren't thinking about what can go on during a movie date in a darkened theatre. Grissom wondered to himself whether this could really be considered a date, and what Sara would expect if she thought it was. She was silently stunned they were sitting there at all, and deciding to go with the flow.

After a while they both managed to relax and enjoy the show, helped by the trio of melodramatic silent shorts which preceded the feature. Apart from leaning closer for the occasional quiet comment and reaching for popcorn, each carefully kept to his or her side of the arm rest.

As the closing credits rolled they rose to leave, Sara declaring that the modern equivalent would have to be "Strangers on a Plane", and Grissom definite that no matter what the characters said, there would always be evidence with which to nail them.

Debating good-naturedly as they left the theater, Sara gently shoved Grissom's shoulder after one of his more facetious factoids. He nudged her back, then stopped, raising his hand to run it whisper-like from her shoulder down to the wrist. Turning over his palm, he slid his fingers into her grasp. They stood there for a moment, barely breathing, connected only by their clasp.

He chanced a glance upward and caught Sara's calm, watchful gaze. Half smiling, he tugged gently, toward the car. They ended up by the passenger door. Grissom softly disengaged, drawing his hand up to brush a strand of hair back off her cheek. Sara smiled. And that was that.

He opened the door and handed her in, then moved round to the driver's side. Once buckled in, he looked at his watch, then turned to Sara and paused, thinking. "It's still too early to go the hospital. Uh – I …" The hesitation was obvious, and tension lurked behind his stammering. "I'd like to …" His eyes were darting skittishly all over the car.

"To what, Grissom? It can't be _that_ bad." Sara was torn between laughter and concern.

"No, no, it's not. It's just - I'd like to drop into the lab. Not to work," he added hastily. "To see the techs, whoever, check they're OK, know about Nick."

Seeing Grissom so uncertain, so far from his usual brusque confidence was a shock, but Sara hid her surprise.

"Phew!" she grimaced comically. "I was worried you were wanting to stage a coup and take over directorship of the lab." It was the most ridiculous thing she could think of, but Grissom seemed so agitated that joking with him seemed to be the way to go.

Now he looked baffled, as well he might. Sarah was a touch disconcerted herself. This new, openly sensitive Grissom would take some getting used to. After a deep, cleansing breath, she tried again, "That's a great idea, Griss. They're probably feeling a bit out of the loop, with rumors running rampant."

Still, he looked nervously at her.

"What did you think? That I was going to try to talk you out of it?" she asked curiously.

"No, no, not at all," the response rushed out, then he faltered. "Sara, I--I've been trying, I am trying, to be more, ah, open to people, particularly to you. But I've spent a lifetime concealing my feelings - I want … people to know I … care about them, but talking about it does not come easily."

He sighed, and briskly rubbed his cheeks. Suddenly the airbag sign at the center of the steering wheel was very fascinating.

"Grissom." Sara leant over and touched his right forearm. "Griss!" He turned his head to meet her eyes. "You're doing just fine. Believe me, I appreciate what you've been doing; I just figured that my remarking on it would be too much.

He shifted his line of sight to stare out over the hood of the car. He nodded once, twice. "Yeah ..."

It had been a very strange few days. First the desperate chase to find and then rescue Nick, and now he'd spent four entire hours with Sara outside of work. Though exhilarating, the events had taken their toll. It was all very wearing.

Seeing the tell-tale sag of Grissom's shoulders, Sara decided it was time to lighten things up. "Hey, Griss, before we go to see Nick, want to go buy him a teddy bear?"

He glared at her feebly and responded with mock offence. "I'm trying to be more emotionally available, not to look like an idiot."

She smirked back at him and half-shrugged. "To the lab?"

"A much better idea."

TBC


	5. A little stronger

**Cotidie**

**Author: **wobbear

**Rating:** T (Teen – mostly for a few crime scene descriptions)  
**Disclaimer:** The story is mine. The characters within, however, are not.  
**Spoilers?** _Grave Danger_ in particular. Anything to the end of season 6 is fair game.  
**A/N** Thank you for reading, and I tell you, it's ridiculous how pleased I am when people review.

**Chapter 5: A little stronger**

Entering the glassy cool of the crime lab, they exchanged greetings with Judy on reception and learned that most of grave's lab people had been sent home, other shifts were covering for them.

Hodges, however, _was_ there. Grissom stifled an internal groan. It was a very big ask for him to feel caring about Hodges. What he really felt for the smarmy trace specialist was an active dislike - although he could, and did, respect the man's skills and ability.

Hodges turned out to be tidying the trace lab in preparation for his three-day absence at what he described as "a significant conference on Specialist Analysis of Trace Evidence" in San Francisco. He spouted on for a few moments about the valuable insights he was doubtless going to gain from Professor Anthony Bennett, who was head of Berkeley's Criminalistics department and the conference chair. Grissom refrained from mentioning that as he'd approved Hodges' application to go to said conference, he was familiar with its program.

Winding down, Hodges suggested hopefully, "Perhaps I could give some tutorials to junior CSIs and patrol officers on my return?"

"Yes, that's an idea, Hodges." Grissom was angling for the door when he remembered what he'd wanted to say to the irritating technician. "Very well-timed call on the explosives, David. You played a vital part in getting Nick out safely."

For one who was so often singing his own praises, Hodges was surprisingly humble in the face of his supervisor's words. "I was very glad I could help. If I hadn't gotten through to Catherine when I did ...". His voice faded away, and the two men shared a moment, each staring at his own feet, contemplating the horror that had been so narrowly averted.

Coming to, Grissom slapped the flat of his hand on the door jamb. "Yes. Right. I'm heading to the hospital to see Nick soon. Enjoy the conference."

Having made good his escape, he wandered toward the break room, from where Sara's voice drifted out into the hallway. She was ensconced there with Bobby Dawson and Ronnie Litre. Neither had really been involved with the case, but the ballistics man was a friend of Nick's, and Ronnie had innate human concern for his CSI colleague.

Working with documents was generally very safe, and that was the way Ronnie liked it, but he knew and talked regularly with all of the CSIs. He wasn't known as the lab gossip guru for nothing. He also had the inside info on where to find Greg's secret bean stash, so they were enjoying some tasty coffee.

Ronnie poured a mug for the new arrival, using Grissom's Secret Santa present from the previous Christmas. The mug was decorated with anatomically incorrect creepy crawlies, and a few things with wings, and proclaimed "Entomologists do it with bugs". Grissom had used it once for a ceremonial toast during the pre-Christmas gift exchange, and thereafter had consigned the mug to the communal collection in the break room cupboard. He suspected that Greg was the donor, but those occasional tastes of his Blue Mountain brew more than made up for it.

So they sat, sipping Greg's finest, talking about everything and nothing. Sara had already filled the guys in on some of the gorier details of Nick's temporary tomb and the rescue, and they were pleased to see for themselves that Grissom was in one piece.

Time slowly rolled on, until his mug was close to empty. Grissom checked his watch and raised an inquiring brow to Sara. "It's still early, but do you want to try the hospital?"

"Sure," she concurred. "And not too much later I'll be ready for more sleep. Still got a deficit to catch up on."

Grissom squinted at Sara. She was either so tired that she was sounding very unlike herself, or she was indirectly trying to get him to go to bed. He had often contemplated her in the context of bed. Most of those thoughts didn't involve a whole lot of sleeping. _Going to bed with Sara_ ... He dragged his attention back to the present.

Leaving Ronnie and Bobby to their refilled drinks, Grissom and Sara headed for the parking lot. As they passed the restrooms, she decided on a pit stop, so he killed time at the front desk, flipping through umpteen messages and filing most in the round receptacle on the floor.

ooooooooo

Getting onto the elevator in the hospital Sara and Grissom both reached for the control buttons, then jumped as their hands touched.

Static electricity. "Sparks are flying," she said with a grin. Then she very deliberately picked up his right hand by the index finger and pressed it on the floor 7 button.

The elevator doors opened onto the ICU reception. The small seating area nearby already held Nick's parents, who looked very worn but relieved, and a young woman, who seemed slightly familiar to the CSIs.

"Dr Grissom, Ms Sidle, good to see you." Even exhausted, the judge held to the proprieties. "Thank you for all you did, for saving our boy." Mrs Stokes didn't speak, but nodded in agreement, all the while tightly clasping her husband's hand. He gestured to the young woman. "This is Danielle, our youngest daughter."

Danielle had flown in during the night to be with her parents and to see her much-loved brother. She joked that Nick was grateful only she had come to Vegas. "He loves us all, but five sisters all showing how much they care would be too much of a good thing for the poor guy."

In answer to the unspoken question, Danielle explained, "They're examining and re-wrapping the mummy, so we're staying out of the way."

The newcomers found seats and looked at their hands for a bit. The procedure was taking a while. Sara looked at Grissom and they came to a silent accord. She spoke, "Why don't we leave you to it? Would you tell Nick we were here and that we'll come back another time."

Dipping into his right hip pocket, Grissom drew out a black leather billfold and fished around inside. Finally locating a business card, he wrote swiftly on the back and handed it to Judge Stokes. "That's my home number; the work ones are on the front. Please call me if I can do anything, help with queries, you name it. And please tell Nick the same."

"We'll surely do that, thank you again."

ooooooooo

It was an anti-climax leaving Desert Palm without seeing Nick, but Sara felt oddly relieved. "I feel like a wuss. I wanted to see him, but I don't like seeing people I love in pain."

Grissom responded by snaking his arm around her waist as they walked back to the car. Words didn't always come easily; succumbing to his desire to touch her, to comfort her, was becoming easier every day. He didn't just want these brief touches, but he could wait. Patience was one thing he had a lot of.

In comfortable silence, Grissom drove them back to Sara's apartment complex, parking in a visitor's spot. Sara got out and then discovered Grissom had too. She frowned a query at him.

She really was tired and, amazing as the last few hours had been, she wanted to decompress with only camomile tea and _White Lilies Island_ for company. She needed some time for solo reflection.

He raised his hands defensively. "I was just going to walk you to your door, I'm not trying to invite myself in."

She knew she had previously appealed to his protective nature to get him to go along with her, but now the shoe was on the other foot and it was the last thing she wanted.

"Griss, that's ... sweet, but I can see it from here. Xeriscaping tends to sparse planting, and there's no room for anyone to lurk behind that Joshua tree."

"Humor me."

"Humor you?"

"Yes, humor me." He waved his arm in an exaggerated flourish along the path.

Rolling her eyes, Sara gave in semi-graciously and he shadowed her the 20 feet to her door while she dug in her bag. Keys found, she turned to Grissom and he said, "This has been ... a good night, hasn't it?"

Many words jostled in her mind, but what to say? "It has," she eventually agreed.

"Sara, this is rather late, but I want to thank you, for making me leave Nick's scene - I was almost in a trance. I knew I should go, but I couldn't make myself move."

"But you did--". He interrupted, "No, no, you made me leave."

"No, you already thanked me." Grissom looked confused. "You _were_ a bit out of it at the time," she conceded.

"Oh. Well, I'm feeling a lot better now, and I want to thank you _again_." He stressed the last word and smiled his gratitude.

They stood blinking at each other for a moment or two. She started jingling her keys. He put a hand on her shoulder; the other was lightly stroking the side of her neck.

He looked so hopeful and, frankly, she was too. Suddenly all over-thinking and hesitation fled and they leaned into each other. A brief press of the lips, an even briefer rubbing together of opposite cheeks, a shiver of desire.

They stared at each other, both looking a bit startled, then broke out into broad grins.

"Uh, I'd better go."

"Go, Griss. Sleep well."

Grissom turned and went back down the path, feeling her eyes warm on his back. He saw her wave from the door as he got into the car and drove away. _What was that again about being patient?_ He was still grinning.

ooooooooo

Entering her apartment, Sara flopped down on her sofa. She stretched out like a contented cat, and arranged her long limbs comfortably.

'Gah,' she thought. 'We kissed. Grissom kissed me. I kissed him. I _kissed_ Gil Grissom. Wow. And it was good. Far too short. But we did it.'

'But since when did I think in words of only one syllable?'

The imp on her shoulder helpfully pointed out that "Grissom" had two syllables. She flapped a hand at that and wiggled her toes._ It wasn't so much the kiss itself, as what it represented._

She was caught in a curious sensation somewhere between pleasure and anticipation. More accurately, she was lurching from one to the other and back again at lightning speed, and floating in between there was a giddy feeling that was ... good.

Monosyllabic again, she noted.

ooooooooo

Across town a way, Grissom was having his own version of post-kiss pondering. He had made it home safely - well, sort of. He'd been sitting in his car inside his garage for more than ten minutes, lightly running two fingers over his lips and cheek.

_What was he, a teenager after his first kiss?_ It had been a while, admittedly, but he'd done a decent amount of kissing, and more, in his time. And this one had been so nearly chaste. "I don't care. It's Sara, it's different," he said defiantly to the rearview mirror, and finally got out of the car.

TBC


	6. All my friends

**Cotidie**

**Author: **wobbear

**Rating:** T (Teen – mostly for a few crime scene descriptions)  
**Disclaimer:** The story is mine. The characters within, however, are not, except for one Antonio Alto – who ended up with quite a large role in this chapter.  
**Spoilers?** _Grave Danger_ in particular. Anything to the end of season 6 is fair game.  
**A/N** I was going to say 'I think I've lost the plot', but then I thought, what plot? Er, this is a longer chapter, for me - not sure whether that's a good thing. Four to go. Chapter 7 may possibly be up tomorrow. Thank you for reading, and for reviewing if you get the urge.

**Summary** Some interaction with the rest of the gang, along with a smidge or three of GSR.

**Ch 6: All my friends**

The sun was setting on Las Vegas when Grissom next surfaced. He had slept dreamlessly after the nightcap, and awoke refreshed. Quality time with coffee, eggs and crossword gradually gave way to an edgy feeling. No question what the problem was - he wasn't allowed to work until the following day, and he was having withdrawal symptoms. That wasn't unusual, but he also felt solitude dragging on him - an unaccustomed feeling for one so used to being his own, and only, company.

His thoughts, as so often, turned to Sara. She had been receptive to his recent overtures, but he was concerned not to overwhelm her. If he was finding his new self hard to deal with, she must be shocked to the core. _But she seems to be taking it in her stride_. Finally he admitted to himself that _he_ felt the need to take it slowly …

That kiss – it was nearly nothing, yet it was … something. _Such profundity, Gil._

After some more rumination, Grissom grabbed the phone and pressed a button. Several rings later it was picked up and, a significant pause later, a rough voice grunted, "Yeah?"

"Oh, hey, sorry Jim, did I wake you?"

"Gil? Is that you?" Brass suddenly sounded remarkably more alert. On Grissom's affirmative, he continued. "Sorry, I don't have caller ID on my landline and the half-awake grouch act is to deter any dispatcher or detective who dares phone me. I'm off duty, my cell and pager are off, but some people don't take the hint." Winding down from his venting, Brass asked, "How're you doing?"

"Me? I'm good, fine. But we're still banned from working and I'm ..."

"Going stir-crazy?" chuckled Brass.

"Nope. Definitely seeking distraction though."

"And you called me? I'm honored."

"Yeah, yeah," Grissom returned, unable to disguise the smile in his voice. "First I thought about poker, but what about a meal?"

"Tonight? Sure," was the instant response. "Where?"

"Um - I was thinking ..." Grissom stumbled. "Ah, would you mind having some company?"

"Uh, what?" Now it was Brass' turn to hesitate. "D'you mean ... 'female companions'?"

"WHAT! Where did that come from?" Jim was a close friend, but the prospect implied was ... appalling. Even if Sara wasn't in his every thought. "No, no, I was thinking of seeing if the guys were available, and the … women. I mean, the old graveyard shift. Not Nick, obviously, and Greg's on my list of course."

"Huh. That's a nice idea. You _sure_ you're feeling OK?"

"Jim," Grissom grumbled, "Don't. Are you in?"

"I'm already in," Brass reminded him. " Got anywhere in mind? There's this great Chinese place ..."

"Yeah, Chinese would work. Only problem, can we get a table? It's Saturday night, and there may be ... six of us."

"No problem, I know a guy."

"You know a guy?"

"Yep." Brass sounded confident. "Look, I'll give him a buzz, tee it up, while you try rounding up the kids. Oh, and I'll call Catherine, share the load a bit."

ooooooooo

Three hours later, a motley crew started gathering at Chinese Whispers.

Everyone had turned out to be (or more accurately, in Greg's case, he had made himself) available. Warwick's nurse girlfriend was working the night shift, so he was free. Sara would otherwise have been working. Catherine had her daughter in tow, Lindsey having determined that dinner with Uncle Gil and the gang was way better than staying at her grandmother's.

Before Grissom's call, Greg had been contemplating how to blow off his Saturday night date. Tracey had seemed OK when he met her at a friend's party, but in the couple of conversations they'd had since, she came across - a bit off. She was already trying to change his hair, for chrissake. Firstly, they hadn't even dated yet. Secondly, if she couldn't recognise his highly individual style, it didn't look promising. Thirdly, hell, Grissom inviting him to dinner was a rarity he wasn't going to pass up. So he left her a voicemail (lucky she refused to ever answer calls, because she preferred TXTing): "Boss called. Sorry can't make it." He reasoned it sounded kinda like a text message.

So Greg too was heading to Chinese Whispers, complete with freshly-tended floppy spikes and a pleasant sense of anticipation.

By chance, not design, the two organizers were first to arrive. Approaching the restaurant from opposite directions, they saw each other long before either felt sufficiently near to speak. Brass' deliberate paces and Grissom's rocking stride brought them smiling to the reception desk. Right hands were extended and they shook warmly - an unusual occurrence for the cop and the CSI, but these were unusual times.

Brass inspected Grissom, and said approvingly, "You look good, Gil. I was worried you were a bit close to the edge there, at the end."

"Maybe I was. But Sara made me leave, I got a heap of sleep and I feel a whole lot better."

Brass nodded in satisfaction, silently noting the mention of Sara. Leaving it well alone, he moved to check in with the greeter, and confirmed they wanted to wait a while to be seated, to allow the others some time. Turning back to Grissom, Brass raised his finger, remembering something. "Gil, I hope it's alright with you. I gave Al a call, his wife's away with her sister ..."

Cue the appearance around the corner of the distinctive squat figure of Doctor Albert Robbins, making slow but steady progress with the aid of a crutch.

"… I guess it's too late for me to say no," said Grissom, his sparkling eyes revealing his pleasure at Brass' idea.

More shaking of hands ensued, and Brass decided it was time to be seated - the unspoken reason being Doc Robbins' prostheses. Al had never been heard to complain or even to request special consideration because of his disability, which naturally drove his able-bodied friends to assist him in whatever subtle ways they could.

On their way to the table, a joyous cry of "Jimmy!" rang out. Brass turned to the sound and was enveloped by a large, swarthy man in a dark suit. "Jimmy, _come stai_? How are ya?"

"Good, good, Tony - hey, shouldn't you be speaking Chinese, not Italian?"

"_Si, certo_, sure; but old habits die hard."

Brass introduced his companions to Antonio Alto, who somewhat perversely was the maitre d' of the Chinese restaurant.

"Thanks for finding space for us at short notice," said Brass.

"Always for you, Jimmy, you know that," insisted Alto. He bustled the trio to a large, round table, in a prime position, out of the way of kitchen and general pedestrian traffic.

Brass and Robbins sat down, then Brass rose again almost immediately to greet Warwick and Greg, who turned up together. Catherine and Lindsey were close on their heels. Grissom's back was to the entry, but something made him turn around.

And there was Sara.

Like everyone, she was in what could loosely be described as smart casual attire, but - in a nod to their venue - above black jeans Sara wore a Chinese-style top; red satin brocade with short sleeves and a mandarin collar, fastened with 'frogs', the ornamental button and loop braiding. She hovered outside the gaggle, looking uncertain, until Grissom remembered how to move and ventured forth. Bowing slightly, he said gravely, "Ni hao."

Seeing Sara's bemused look, he rushed to explain, "That's 'Hello', in Mandarin Chinese. Of course, this may well be a Cantonese, or other, place, but I had a roommate in college whose roots were in Peking, or Beijing as it is now." Suddenly realising he was babbling, Grissom clammed up, and grasped her forearm to draw her into the group.

Sara charitably just smiled and said "Hi," allowing herself to be directed by his warm hand. He was trying _so_ hard - _too_ hard, here - but no way did she want him to stop.

Soon everyone was picking spots around the table. Grissom quietly but firmly ensured Sara was seated on his right. To her right was Greg. Lindsey wanted be "between the cool guys" so was next, with Warrick beside her. Then came Catherine (close enough to have input with her daughter if required); Doc Robbins and Brass completed the circle.

Once drinks had been delivered, Grissom tapped a glass self-consciously. Attention gained, he cleared his throat. "Uh, people, you know I'm not one for public speaking, nor private speeches for that matter. But I want to say this. I'm delighted you were all able to come at such short notice. It's ... strange looking around the table and not seeing Nick, but he's safe, and that's due in no small part to all your efforts."

"Yours too, Grissom, a very big part," interjected Warrick. Agreement chorused round the table.

Fearing he'd lose what momentum he had, Grissom rushed on. "Let's raise our glasses and toast Nick's rescue, and hope for his speedy recovery."

Glassware was clinked all around, Greg and Lindsey so enthusiastic that a napkin was pressed into use to soak up spillage.

"One more thing, maybe two," continued Grissom. "Jim and I are footing the bill - the only thing we ask is that we do this Chinese style, between us order a selection of dishes and all share them." In an aside to Sara, he asked anxiously, "Is that OK? I'll choose a vegetarian-friendly dish so with yours that'll be at least two ..."

"Don't worry, Grissom. Chinese food isn't meat–heavy - and I can always persuade Greg to get something I want, anyway," she said with a confident grin.

Grissom wasn't sure he liked that idea, but didn't know what to do about it either, so sagely said nothing.

After considerable discussion orders were placed.

oooooooooo

Tuning into the tail-end of Al Robbins' lively story, Grissom heard, "… he told me to shake a leg, so I took one off and waved it under his nose." Grissom decided he didn't want to hear the full account. He caught Brass' attention and asked, "So, Jim, how _did_ we get this table?"

Brass looked into the distance as he remembered. "Tony, I came across him and his family back in Jersey. He's an honest guy, straight as a die, but some of his cousins spend their lives on the darker side."

"You mean the Mafia?"

"Yeah, whatever you want to call them," sighed Brass. "One of Tony's nephews was tempted by - I dunno, the money? The danger? Anyway, he got picked up for something minor and I managed to scare the idea out of him." Brass looked satisfied at that memory. "His mom, Tony's sister, kept giving me free meals at her family's restaurant to say thank you. Now Tony's out here, and he likes to do what he can. He used to work at the Italian place next door, but decided to broaden his horizons."

Once the many dishes of the meal arrived, all got down to the important business of eating. Lindsey got how-to-handle chopsticks lessons from both Greg and Warrick, and rapidly realised that the latter's instructions were much more conducive to picking up food. But Greg did look very sharp with bamboo fangs coming out of his nose.

When the maitre d' came over, yet again, to check with Brass that everything was OK, Grissom turned to his right and found that, although Lindsey was still enthralled, Sara had given up on Greg's latest fantastical tale.

"How are you finding the food?" he asked Sara quietly.

"I open my eyes and look at the big dishes on the table."

Expecting a straighter response, it took a moment for Grissom to register. Then he cocked his head, looked sternly at her, as he purse his lips and waited.

She caved. "It's delicious, isn't it? Different from last night though." Her voice was low, and so was his in reply. "Mmm. Chinese chopsticks are longer, fatter and less pointy."

"That the only difference?" prodded Sara.

"We were alone."

"Yeah," replied Sara. "That was nice, I mean, this is a wonderful idea, but spending time with just you is ... special." She shifted in her seat so she was facing him more directly. "Special."

"I agree." He edged his right leg over until it nudged her thigh, and left it there.

"Hey, Gil," Catherine spoke across the table, "Back me up here, will you? Warrick refuses to believe you first met me when I was dancing at 'Pretty Ladies'.

"What I _said_ was, Grissom doesn't seem the type to frequent girlie bars."

"Well, it's true. But I was on the job."

"Figures," muttered Greg.

Casting a mock glare in Greg's direction, Grissom continued. "One of the bouncers has been found in a dumpster in the back alley. Catherine gave us descriptions of the likely suspects, lowlifes she'd seen arguing with the guy before he ended up dead. Thing is, the details she remembered were a whole lot more specific that the usual 'dark hair/medium build/wearing jeans', and she caught my attention ..."

"… And the rest is history," interrupted Catherine.

"No, mom, I want to hear all the juicy details, and you started this."

"No, technically Warrick started this, and there are no juicy details. I just don't want to re-visit ancient history tonight. We're supposed to be celebrating Nick's rescue."

For a guy who spent a lot of time alone with a dictaphone and dead bodies, Al Robbins had a heap of weird tales to tell, although many were barely appropriate for a restaurant. He decided it was time to launch into a new one.

"Did you hear about the DB which was brought in wearing a full suit of armor? Rigor had set in, and it was impossible to get the suit off. We could have waited for rigor to pass, but the ADA was agitating for extra evidence to charge a suspect - so we had to borrow metal cutters from the police motor pool." He was soon describing the intricacies of wielding a blow torch near a corpse.

Lindsey and the "boys" suitably distracted, Catherine went to visit the restroom and on her return crouched down next to Grissom. "Gil, when I last spoke to Ecklie, he was asking for a meeting with us at swing/graveyard cross-over time tomorrow night."

At Grissom's blank look, she went on. "He's left you messages, but I figured you may not've picked them up."

"Huh. Conference with Conrad. My favourite pastime." He sighed.

Under the table, he felt Sara's hand sneak over and gently squeeze his thigh. Of its own volition, his hand moved to trap hers on his leg. He wiggled his fingers in between hers, strengthening the hold.

They studiously looked anywhere except at each other.

Doc Robins started to make moves to go, insisting that he wanted to help pay for the meal. "The drinks, at least." He caught a waiter's attention and made a check-requesting squiggle sign in the air. Returning to the table the check bearer was intercepted by the maitre d', who plucked the paper out of the man's hand and tore it to shreds.

Grissom protested, but from past experience Brass already knew it was a lost cause. And this time Tony Alto had the added incentive of wanting to honor, as he put it, "the city's finest after their tremendous trauma, tenacity and triumph".

Gracious capitulation was the only way to go, so they went. It involved a lot of hand shaking and back slapping, and red-faced CSIs wishing they could hide under the table when the voluble maitre d' regaled the restaurant's patrons with their identities and exploits.

They made an unspoken, unanimous decision that it was time to leave. Thanks and goodbyes were distributed liberally and the group split up. Catherine and Lindsay were headed to the Braun casino next door to visit Grandpa Sam, Greg wanted to try his luck on the tables there, and Warwick was looking to meet his girlfriend for coffee on her break. Robbins and Brass left together, mumbling about a show they might catch.

That left Sara and Grissom, each wondering what to say.

"Can I give you a ride?" they blurted simultaneously, then laughed likewise.

"I guess not," concluded Grissom. "Wait a minute, you've still got that work Denali, don't you? You drove it here?" Sara nodded and he went on, "Why don't you drop it off at the lab so it can go back into the vehicle pool, and I'll give you a ride home."

She raised her eyebrows suggestively and he grumbled lightly at her, "I'm trying to be a responsible supervisor _and_ spend a bit more time with you. I thought you'd be pleased at my attempt to combine my work and personal life harmoniously."

"OK, sure, why not?" she replied. "You're getting better at the smooth talking, I'll give you that."

His expression was somewhere between endearing and smug.

TBC


	7. A little longer

**Cotidie**

**Author: **wobbear

**Rating:** T (Teen – mostly for a few crime scene descriptions)  
**Disclaimer:** The story is mine. The characters within, however, are not.  
**Spoilers?** _Grave Danger_ in particular. Anything to the end of season 6 is fair game.  
**A/N** The lines quoted in this chapter have been used many times before, and by better writers than me, but they seemed to fit, and I couldn't shake them. The first section got rather talky and … let's just say I think a fluffy melodrama alert is in order._  
_Reviewers, as always, thank you muchly.

**Chapter 7: A little longer**

The following evening saw Sara getting ready for the first night back at work. She had been to see Nick in the morning, before she went to bed, and had found him in better shape - more like a man in bandages than a mummy now, since more skin was uncovered.

The fire ant bites still looked nasty, but most were unlikely to leave lasting scars - _if_ Nick could avoid scratching as they healed. That was a big "if", and Sara contemplated getting him some triple thickness latex gloves to reduce the temptation to itch. _But would he wear them?_

Grissom had said he would go to the hospital on the way to his Ecklie meeting. Grissom. No, _Gil_. That was going to take some getting used to. But for now anyway, she was going to stick with "Grissom" for work.

After considerable internal debate, Sara had invited him in when he drove her home after the Chinese meal. He'd agreed to Earl Grey tea, and started inspecting her bookshelves while it brewed. From the kitchen, where she was readying cups and lemon slices, she saw him leafing through a book.

"Found my one entomology text there, Griss?" she asked.

He looked over at her, eyes soft. "No, Yeats."

"William Butler Yeats. I bought that because of one poem. It featured in the movie "84 Charing Cross Road", which came out the year I turned 16, and I was really taken by it. 'He wishes for …'"

" '… the cloths of heaven'." Grissom completed the title. "It's a favourite of mine too, Sara. I--I ..."

"You … ?" she encouraged gently.

His eyes were darting restlessly around the room, and eventually returned to the open pages of the book in his right hand. He fiddled with his glasses, pushing up at the bridge, but they hadn't slipped down. Drawing in a deep breath, he nervously raised his eyes to meet her steady brown gaze. "You recall the last lines, don't you?" He recited from memory,

"_I have spread my dreams under your feet;  
__Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams_."

She nodded, silently pleading that he would say something beyond a quotation, no matter how touching Yeats' words might be.

Her sight was drawn to his left hand, and she saw his thumb rubbing gently over his fingers in that familiar mannerism. She looked back up to see wide blue eyes, and his jaw working as he struggled to speak. She waited, in what she hoped was a non-threatening way.

"Sara … Sara, this is …is going sound trite, but it's true. You are my dream, all my dreams. For a long time I refused to admit it, tried to ignore it. I let my insecurities overwhelm me, and took the coward's course of doing nothing. I realise now I've treated you … very badly, hurt you often unthinkingly. But you're still here, and I'm … amazed at your tenacity, your strength."

He puffed his cheeks and blew out a big sigh. "Maybe it's far too soon, or maybe I'm too late, to be saying this. I can't fathom why you're interested in me, still interested after all this time, after everything. I mean, I think you are," he looked very uncertain, but hurried on. "I don't deserve you, but I want to be with you, not just dream about it. I know you're real … very real." A glimmer of a smile appeared in his anxious eyes. "I want us - whatever we can have - to be real."

The teakettle whistled, and Sara hastened to turn it off. She circled her hand forward in a "go on" gesture. If he had more to say, she wanted to be sure he got it out. To her surprise, he did.

"I--I still don't know what to do about … this. I just know I want to try. All I've figured out is that, whatever I do, I need to go slowly – because I have an alarming tendency to lose my nerve," he admitted with a sheepish grin, "Or to rile you. Or both."

She smirked gently at that, while he rushed on, "And I'm worried I'll disappoint you anyway, by being too cautious, too tentative, too ... me. I--I'm blathering … but I need you to know how I feel."

At last he ground to a halt, and stood staring at Sara, his flood of words finally stemmed.

Sara took a moment to gather herself. This extraordinary outburst was so out of character for the Grissom she'd experienced for years now - but he _had_ been different recently. Taking all the clues into account, there was incontrovertible evidence of a sea change.

She had plenty she wanted to say, and now was the time to say it. She leant back on the kitchen counter by the waiting tea cups.

"Griss - no, Gil. Can I call you Gil?"

"Of course." A whisper.

"You know that I came to Vegas because of you." He nodded. "I was keen to see you again, and to help you, and then I stayed because you asked me to stay." Again, he nodded, bowing his head.

"Would you … please look at me, Gil? I need to see your eyes." He slowly lifted up his head, and his eyes met hers.

"The work side has, on the whole, been great, but I left behind good professional prospects in San Francisco. We had a … connection when we first met, and I know you felt it too. I came here because of you, and you – slowly, but surely – shut me out."

"Sara, I--I," he started. "No," she replied calmly, "I let you speak. It's my turn now."

He agreed mutely, putting a finger to his lips.

"I've waited so long, waited and hoped even when it seemed hopeless, when I questioned my sanity. Yes, you have hurt me, whether intentionally or not. Sometimes I feel … unutterably pathetic that I have hung on for so long, but … I just couldn't let it go. It's my dream too."

Grissom's shoulders rose and fell with the release of an enormous sigh of relief.

"Taking things slowly is no problem, I think we need to. The reason I haven't been pushing since you started your … your what? - your outreach program, is that I want to give this the best chance to work. I don't know all your deepest secrets, but I do know what you're inclined to run from emotional involvement, and so this is a massive change for you. I haven't been great at relationships myself, but at least I've gotten an idea of what doesn't work." She smiled wistfully at her memories.

"I _do_ know how hard this is for you, and truly appreciate that you're trying anyway. But … although I'm very hopeful, and I welcome what you're doing now, I'm still … wary. We both need to get used to the idea of coming together, to learn we can trust each other … So let's both tread softly."

He took a few steps toward her, then looked disconcerted to find that he was still holding the book. Sara took and deposited it on the kitchen counter, then grasped Grissom's hands, pulling him to her. Then in a warm haze they were hugging. Torsos softly together, faces nuzzling necks, hands lightly caressing shoulders, backs, waists, hips - then stopping, clutching firmly. Holding on, holding close. Hot breath dancing on skin. Quiet murmurs into ears. In the gentle press of their bodies was made a pact of their souls.

At last someone let out a happy sigh and they edged apart. Grissom clasped her hands and bent to kiss them. He straightened, eyes smiling, and whispered, "Yes".

Then he quietly left, keeping eye contact with Sara all the way to and out the door. Walking backward down the path wasn't the best idea, so he raised his hand in farewell, blew another kiss, and turned to go forward.

ooooooooo

Grissom arrived at the lab early for shift, though not his usual several hours ahead - there was just time to grab a first cup of coffee and flip through the assignment slips which had come through from dispatch. Then Catherine appeared in his doorway, clearing her throat and looking in mimed exaggeration at her watchless wrist.

He peered at her over his glasses. "I'm guessing it's time," said Grissom dryly.

"Wow, you're a really smart guy, aren't you?" Her friendly grin took away any bite, but he squinted at her anyway and got up from his desk. Moving to the door he gestured, "You first," and fell in step beside Catherine as they headed down the hall to Ecklie's office.

"How was your shift?" he inquired.

"Ah, not bad, quiet really. A couple of B&Es, one suspicious death. No kidnapped CSIs, thank God."

"I saw Nick this evening. He's out of the ICU, and they're going to let him get up to try walking soon. He's already talking about being bored ..."

"I tell you, I'm happy for him to be bored there for a while longer," said Catherine, shivering at the memory of how narrowly Nick had cheated death.

"I hear you. Well, here we are."

The door was ajar; she knocked lightly and they entered without waiting for a go-ahead. Ecklie was on the phone and motioned for them to sit down.

"… Yes, Sheriff, I'll be sure to tell them ... Yes, of course ... Goodbye, Sheriff." He hung up.

"That," he said, pointing at the phone, "was the Sheriff." Both CSIs scarcely concealed "duh" expressions, and waited for Ecklie to continue.

"He wants me to give you his congratulations on a job very well done, finding Nick against the odds, and he was asking after Nick."

"Gil saw him more recently than me," said Catherine, and Grissom duly relayed the latest.

Ecklie appeared to be genuinely interested, but perhaps he was just ensuring that he could give an accurate account to the Sheriff, Grissom thought cynically. The Assistant Director made a couple of notes and, putting the pen down, looked up at them. They regarded him silently, not wanting to initiate the discussion, mainly because the subject matter was a mystery to them.

"I expect you're wondering why I called this meeting."

Grissom remained impassive, his blank expression the result of years of practice. Never one for a poker face, Catherine tired for once of being politic and said, "Yeah, we're here Conrad, so give."

Ecklie frowned at her impertinence and decided to address his remarks specifically to Grissom. "I agree with the Sheriff. In a very difficult situation, you led the investigation impressively and brought our CSI back alive."

Torn between discomfort and surprise at the compliment from such an unlikely source, Grissom rejoined, "It was a team effort, Conrad. Everyone contributed to Nick's recovery."

It was now Ecklie's turn to look uncomfortable. He spent some time examining a hangnail on his left thumb, while Grissom and Catherine exchanged uncertain eye shrugs.

"I'm not a fool. I know you don't like me. That's fine. I'd rather be right than popular." Only great restraint prevented Grissom from commenting, "Pity you miss out on both, isn't it?" Then he realised that Ecklie was still talking. "We don't have to be friends, but we do owe each other professional respect."

Grissom couldn't fathom where this was leading. The only respect he was ever able to give Conrad Ecklie was fuelled by the latter's influence on CSI's budgets - even a political ignoramus like himself knew that "dissing" someone with considerable funding control was a seriously stupid idea. And, he reluctantly admitted, Ecklie had acquitted himself well during the whole Nick ordeal - he'd shown almost human sensitivity.

Ecklie, evidently, hadn't finished, but he seemed to be searching for words. " I ... uh ... I may have acted too harshly when I split your team up, Gil. It made seemed a good move at the time, but in hindsight it was ... impractical."

_Perhaps Conrad had finally flipped?_ Grissom found that by looking at, but not focussing on, the van Gogh "Sunflowers" print behind Ecklie's left ear, he could pretend he was looking at the Assistant Director.

"The thing is, Gil ... at the scene, as the ambulance was driving away, you said 'I want my guys back.'"

Grissom did have a vague memory of saying something to that effect; then again, he thought he might well have dreamed it - apparently not. Catherine didn't look surprised, so presumably he _had_ said it, and someone like Brass had passed it on to her.

Ecklie had finally fallen silent, and was looking expectantly at Grissom. "Ah, yes, I did," seemed an appropriate response.

That was clearly the desired cue. Ecklie put on his best 'I'm a benevolent administrator looking out for my people' look and proceeded.

"We'd already been looking at personnel levels in relation to crime rates and work loads, and there's a disparity. The overtime you're always doing certainly confirms that. The Sheriff and the Mayor are keen to maintain the Crime Lab's excellent record and reputation. The 'tough on crime' image is good for tourism and the casinos, so it's good for the city. And we've got funding support to pay for additional people from certain private business donors. To cut a long story short, we're looking to re-instate the old graveyard staffing, and to employ more CSIs to cover swing."

"To clarify," asked Catherine, "this re-instatement includes me?"

"I--I think I only mentioned the guys" interjected Grissom, uncertain of what he'd said, but concerned that she would feel slighted by the apparent demotion. "Catherine merited her promotion and is a capable supervisor." This was his honest opinion, although he was only too aware of various problems - her reaction to him leading on the Bruce Eiger case, for example - and other, to put it mildly, "difficult" situations, top of the list being Sara's suspension incident. Catherine had been … tetchy for some time now.

"No, wait, Gil - I mean, thanks, but provided we can agree on some acknowledgment of my seniority, I'd rather work grave again, as an interim measure at least. It's no secret I want to supervise the day shift, but swing's the worst possible schedule for me to spend any worthwhile time with Lindsey."

Ecklie weighed this and decided to speak. "In fact, the days possibility may not be too far off. Curtis was in the running for it now she's served her penance, but she's muttering about wanting out of the lab."

"Sofia? Out of CSI?" Grissom asked. "What is she looking to do?"

Ecklie looked bemused as he replied, "Would you believe it, she wants to transfer back to detective duty."

"Huh." Grissom looked at Catherine, and saw Ecklie looking hopefully at them both. She raised her eyebrows and nodded in approval. Grissom pouted pensively, then said, "This could work."

TBC


	8. What we long for

**Cotidie**

**Author: **wobbear

**Rating:** T (Teen – mostly for some crime scene descriptions)  
**Disclaimer:** The story is mine. The characters within, however, are not.  
**Spoilers?** _Grave Danger_ in particular. Anything to the end of season 6 is fair game.  
**A/N** You will have noticed this isn't fast-moving. It started out as a one-shot: I expect it would've seemed faster in that format! Certainly would've been shorter.  
In the useless info/trivia category, but vaguely relevant to something which follows: "throwing a tanty" in NZ and Australian English is equivalent to "pitching a fit."  
Reviewers, I'm very grateful for your kind remarks. Now, on with the story.

**Chapter 8: What we long for**

_Man, am I tired_, admitted Sara. She shook her legs one at a time, trying to relieve the strain of too much crouching inside a very disagreeable dumpster, and headed for the break room.

It had been a busy few weeks. Interviews were underway for new CSIs but - what with notice periods, successful candidates needing to relocate to Vegas and the like - it was going to be a while before they were working. Nick's recuperation was going well and soon he'd be able to start back, part-time, in the lab; but he wasn't back yet. To top it off, Catherine was away on a long-arranged 10-day vacation with Lindsey - Grissom had insisted she go as planned, but it all added to the load for the remaining CSIs. Even with the sporadic help days could give, swing and graveyard shifts were stretched very thinly. Rest and recreation were suffering.

Grissom and Sara had scarcely seen each other outside of work. Not for lack of trying: every attempt had been thwarted. First Grissom got called out to a bug-ridden corpse, then Sara had to attend an expedited prelim hearing, then ...

A couple of diner meals with colleagues, gulped down in the middle of double shifts, didn't count - that was just a matter of stoking the furnaces to keep going for another eight hours.

It had to quiet down soon. Meanwhile, she needed more caffeine.

ooooooooo

Rubbing grainy eyes, Grissom found himself trying to pry them open wider with his fingers. Huffing a wry laugh at the futility, he bent to rummage in his bottom drawer for the Visine which should be there. Successful, he propped his feet on the open drawer and tilted his chair and head back to administer the eye drops - then he stayed that way, trying to blink the artificial moisture to where it was needed.

He was exhausted; even the younger CSIs were way past wilting. But things were on the right track, if only crime would go on a hiatus.

Eager to reduce his administrative overload, Grissom had negotiated an arrangement with Catherine that included her doing the supervisory paperwork for Nick, on his return, and Sara. He would handle the same for Greg and Warrick. Catherine would also have a considerable hand in case reviews, budget-handling, supply ordering, in fact whatever other paperwork he could hand off to her, and would take the lead in what Grissom called "Sheriff schmoozing". It was anathema to him, but thankfully she had no problem with being the designated Sheriff-Mayor-media liaison. She was effectively co-supervisor in all but name, and the extra funding meant no salary drop was required.

Not signing Sara's paperwork as supervisor avoided one of the many obstacles he'd previously seen as a barrier to a relationship with her, although now it all seemed rather … silly. But he hoped Sara would understand. She hadn't protested about it, which was something.

Nor had Catherine remarked about taking over Sara's supervision, which Grissom found a little odd. Maybe for once she was seeing the larger picture, instead of thinking solely about her own position. Maybe she liked the idea of having direct authority over Sara. _Maybe he was over-thinking it_.

He had insisted that Catherine not ditch their holiday and disappoint Lindsey, and now he was reaping the results. To her credit, Catherine had been concerned about the extra strain on the others with her away, and Grissom was pleased that she seemed to have left behind the edgy insecurity and, frankly, bitchiness that had characterized her in recent times. That was all well and good: it didn't stop the bone-dragging weariness that dogged him now.

Then there was Sara. Even Sara, who really _could_ get by on less sleep than most, was tired.

They'd had nearly no time alone together since the evening of the Chinese meal, and he ... yearned for her.

He saw Sara every night at work, of course, where she was the consummate professional. But he often found his eyes lingering on her, often he wanted to reach out and touch her. This was a familiar urge, which in the past he'd always forced himself to resist. But now, now he'd taken the plunge - really he'd only dipped a toe in the water, but it felt very, very deep ... He caught himself drifting off, and shook his head to wake up. Anyway, he'd taken the plunge: shouldn't things be different? _Yes, but not at work._ Trouble was, they were only ever at work these days.

Why had he always assumed that _she_ would be the one to have difficulties with professional boundaries if they became personally involved? He was the one having self-control issues. An annoying internal voice parroted to him "when you assume, you make an ass out of 'u' and 'me'" - not one of his wittier sayings.

He expelled a big breath. Something had to give. Crisis point had most definitely been reached. He didn't care if Ecklie and the Director themselves had to pull on latex gloves; Grissom and his people needed a 48-hour time out, and they were going to get it.

He marshalled his remaining energy and lumbered into Ecklie's office, ready to do battle. The absolute last thing he expected was the exclamation, "Gil! You look shattered! Take some time off for once in your life."

Perhaps some scientist in Brazil had finally figured out human cloning, because this had to be a Conrad clone, albeit with a more agreeable nature than the original. Suddenly aware his mouth was gaping, Grissom shut it and collapsed into a chair.

"Um ... yes, you're right." Reality had indeed turned on its head, he was agreeing with Ecklie now. He was _so_ tired - maybe it could be excused. "The rest of Graveyard is on its last legs too. We all need a couple of nights off."

"You all do, and you're covered. It's shift changeover time: go tell your people, then go home."

Any vigor Grissom had gathered for the expected fight had vanished in a whoosh of surprise at Ecklie's words. Rubbing his hands on his thighs, he then pushed to his feet. "Thank you, Conrad, I … appreciate it."

Wandering around the lab, Grissom first found Warrick in A/V and gave him the good news. Greg and Sara were in the garage examining the dumpster and its innards. Keeping his distance - and regretting there was no "upwind" inside - he told them to knock off as soon as they'd given anything likely to trace and DNA.

Grissom trudged back to his office to put the case files currently on his desk into order, as much as possible. It was the best way to avoid being called for clarifications while he was off. At last the folders were in tidyish piles, with post-its about likely next stages slapped on the top of several, and he stretched in relief.

Grissom trudged back to his office to put the case files currently on his desk into order, as much as possible.

He switched off the desk lamp and was heading for the door when the terrarium caught his eye. He snagged a recently defrosted cricket from the little fridge - he'd installed one in his office sometime after the protests about his use of the break room one - and lifted the lid off the tarantula's home.

Not for the first time, he wondered quite why he had allowed Lindsey Willows to name his beautiful Desert Blonde - but it was a rhetorical question. He'd gotten the new spider just after her father's death, and one day he'd come across the little girl in the break room, waiting for Catherine and looking miserable. A visit to see Uncle Gil's new spider had perked her up a bit, and giving her naming rights had been a definite hit. Only the timely invention of naming rules, giving him a choice out of three, had rescued Grissom from sharing his office with "Eddie" for many years to come. Her second choice, "Spidey", wasn't much better, making the last option seem almost acceptable. So "Tanty" it was.

Grissom was bent over the habitat replenishing the little water container when he heard a quiet "Hi" behind him. Sara, freshly showered by the looks of her wet hair, was hovering in the doorway.

"Hi, are you done?" he asked.

"Yep, and several lemons have given their all." She smiled through her fatigue. "Gr ... Gil, I'm heading home now. Can I ... is it OK if I call you tomorrow? I mean, I'm too tired to make plans now, but ... I'd like to see you."

A happy grin brightened up Grissom's grey face. "Great minds think alike." He straightened up, pressing his fingers into the small of his back, and then replaced the tank top. He moved to gently grasp one of Sara's hands. "I'm ready to go too. I'll walk out with you." He squeezed her hand and released it, stretching back to grab and shrug on his jacket.

The privileges of rank meant they came to his car first. Stopping by the driver's door, they passed a moment of wordless staring at each other. They didn't need to speak to know that neither wanted blatant public displays of affection anywhere near work, but there was a serious amount of personal space violation going on.

Not wanting to leave right away, Sara let her eyes wander and they lit on Grissom's ID badge. "I've always wondered why you clip your badge to your zipper tag." He looked down, bemused, and she tugged it lightly.

"Ah – when they were first introduced, I wore it on a lanyard round my neck, but it got in the way when I bent over evidence. And tucking it inside my shirt or jacket annoyed me, and meant it wasn't visible."

"Hmm." Sara had the badge in her hand. "Have I told you that you look great with a beard? Even your ID photo looks good."

"You look ... you're gorgeous always, Sara."

Their eyes were locked. The tiny space between them was pulsing with promise. Then it ebbed and their exhaustion flooded back. Sara lifted her hand from the ID and barely brushed his bearded dimple. "I'm going now; I'll call you." Grissom's eyes crinkled with his smile.

He stood by his car, watching those long legs as she walked to her vehicle. She turned; right hands raised in unison for a final farewell. Grissom got behind the wheel and drove home, exhausted and elated.

ooooooooo

Much later that day, as Sara was thinking about doing laundry, her fancy cordless phone rang. The display read 'Grissom'. Grinning at the handset, Sara answered, laughing, "Couldn't wait to speak to me, huh?"

"Sara?" His voice was hoarse, strained. "I--sorry, I won't be … able to … do anything."

"Gil! What's wrong?"

"Um … I'm … not good."

"I can hear that." She was worried. He could barely string a sentence together. "What's wrong?" she repeated.

"Very … sore head." The latter words came out in a rush, like it was now or never.

"You've got a migraine?"

"Mmm … sorry."

"Don't apologise, you're sick - it happens. What can I do?"

There was a lengthy silence, but she could hear labored breathing at the other end.

"Griss?" She found herself reverting to the familiar nickname. "Speak to me."

She heard a big sigh and then, "Nothing … I need …".

"What do you need?" she prodded gently.

"Sleep … turning off … the phone."

"No, no, Griss, don't do that."

"Have to. Hurts to … speak. " A pause. "Ring … too loud."

Thinking quickly she said, "OK, look, I'm coming over. Will you be able to let me in?"

"I--I …" Confused rustling followed, thumping noises, and then the unmistakable sound of violent retching.

Sara took the phone away from her ear and frowned at it, not wanting to listen to him vomiting, and not liking the idea he was that unwell. She waited for a while and wondered what to do. After an age, she heard flushing. Finally there was some movement closer to the phone, and one big thwump. She called out his name several times, more in hope than expectation. She checked, and the call was still active, but … nothing. She decided on one last try, very loud, "GRISSOM!" She heard some indistinct noise, and finally a very faint " 'lo?"

"God, Gil, you scared me. I'm coming over. You just--" _What could she say? _"Keep the phone line open, OK?"

"Yeah."

Sara was searching for a few words of comfort when the dial tone blared in her ear.

TBC


	9. Come what may

**Cotidie**

**Author: **wobbear

**Rating:** T (Teen – mostly for some crime scene descriptions)  
**Disclaimer:** The story is mine. The characters within, however, are not.  
**Spoilers?** _Grave Danger_ in particular. Anything to the end of season 6 is fair game.  
**A/N** This was supposed to be the penultimate chapter, but I may have been wrong. There'll be a brief pause in posting to allow some more writing, but the final chapter(s) should appear without _too_ much delay. Still more fan fiction clichés to come, folks!  
Long live the three Rs: readers; reviewers; and recommenders. Thank you all.

**  
Ch 9: Come what may**

Desk drawer.

Sara thanked her lucky star for an eidetic memory. Shortly after she arrived from San Francisco, Grissom requested and got a spare set of her keys. She could still picture him, tossing them into a box which had formerly contained medium sized latex gloves, and putting that box in the bottom drawer of his desk. He said he kept a set from everyone on the shift, if they were willing to provide them - and most did, happy in the knowledge of accessible spares should they lose them or get locked out. Of course, if the key collection didn't include duplicates of his own it would be no help at all; she started wondering if Brass could put her onto someone who was good at picking locks.

The way Grissom had sounded, she didn't want to have to drag him out of bed to open the door - and he could easily be asleep - so she was determined to go equipped with other means of entry. Anyway, the lab was on her way from home to Grissom's, so she could stop there en route. Time enough to consider burglars or locksmiths if the need arose.

Sara hurried into the lab, barely pausing to salute the receptionist, and was soon delving into the remembered drawer. A cracked coffee mug and a ratty old LVPD sweatshirt were cast aside in her search, then under a pile of old _Introduction to Entomology_ seminar outlines she struck gold - cardboard really, but it looked good to her.

The glove box had gotten a little crushed by life in the drawer, but it was holding together and, sure enough, contained several bunches of keys. She smirked at the labels. Grissom had avoided blatantly obvious things like names or addresses, and instead his distinctive hand had written six-digit numbers on little cardboard tags. She recognised her keys, labelled 091671, figured out Catherine's was the set whose number ended in XX, and rummaged through looking for ones with '081756' attached. She had gone through everything without conspicuous success, mentally allocating all the keys to other colleagues, and was left with a bunch on a battered key ring - turning it over she saw an enamelled white intertwined L and A on a blue background. Sara pursed her lips as she considered: he liked baseball; had grown up in LA; the Dodgers were a local team. _I'd be very surprised if they're not his. _She figured she could always call Brass if she was wrong.

Before she set off from the lab, Sara hit speed dial #1 and again the call went straight to voicemail. His recorded message sounded so steady and assured, a world away from the quavering voice she'd heard that night. She told herself it didn't really matter that he'd turned off the phone, but she couldn't help wishing she still had that link open. _What do you want? To listen to him breathing?_ Her answer seemed to be yes. She shrugged ruefully at her neediness.

oooooooooo

It took about 20 minutes to get to Grissom's townhouse. On the way from the guest parking spaces, Sara tried his phone once more, with the same result.

One piece of luck - the keys were the right ones. The deadbolt and the door handle lock both yielded without protest.

Entering gingerly, she called out "Hello! Griss? Gil?" Who knew what he might answer to. Silence greeted her, along with a slightly … musty smell. _Gil, you really need to spend more time away from work. _He wasn't in the main room,so she made for the stairs. She hadn't ventured beyond the guest bathroom on her one previous visit, but thought the master bedroom could well be on the mezzanine level.

At the top, there was an open area with a half wall, so it had a view down over the main room downstairs. An Eames chair was at the far end, complete with matching ottoman, and a swing-arm floor lamp was set up just behind it to illuminate reading. A little round table beside the chair bore a coaster, and nothing else. Except for a door facing the top of the stairs, the entire rear wall was covered with book-laden shelves, which continued over the top of the door. Her quick glance took in volumes on art and poetry, biographies, history and fiction, including a Tintin collection - nothing at all to do with science. Maybe he had an office downstairs?

Treading further into new territory, Sara headed for the partly open door. Her instinct had been right. She paused in the doorway, letting her eyes adjust to the dimness. Grissom had invested in some serious light-blocking drapes, and none of the early evening light got past them. Blinking into the gloom, she could barely make out a headboard against the large window wall on her right, a large bed dressed in dark linens and … the object of her concern was lying on the left hand side, curled away from the door into an almost fetal position, his left arm clamping a pillow over his head. Beside the bed stood a small white wastebasket which looked like it belonged in a bathroom.

Sara tiptoed round to Grissom's side of the bed, crouched down beside him and wondered what to do. She knew all about migraine sufferers' light sensitivity, but she could see next to nothing.

She went back out to the reading area, and turned the lamp on, angling it away from the door. Returning to the bedside, she silently patted herself on the back - she could see, at least a little, now.

Not that there was much to see. Near the bathroom door, a small pile of clothing lay discarded on top of the laundry hamper. Sara recognised the clothes Grissom had been wearing the night before. She looked back to the bed and saw his bare shoulder.

_What was he wearing underneath the covers? _…Was he wearing _anything_? Suddenly she was in a reverie about Grissom with no clothes on - not for the first time, but it was the first time she'd been in his bedroom while her mind ran riot.

The man in question stirred slightly, and Sara started. _What was she doing?_ Day dreaming about Grissom when he was ill. _How low can you go, girl?_ As if on cue, her mind went to a specific, somewhat lower, and very private portion of his anatomy. She shook her head in an attempt to dispel those thoughts, and her eyes landed on the laundry hamper again. Underneath the loose black pants he so favored was the shirt he'd been wearing last at work. The jacket - she now recalled from her arrival - was draped over the arm of the sofa.

_So_ … he took off his shirt first, then the pants. No underwear on the pile, meant he must still be wearing it. _Unless he didn't w_-- … No, no, that was a place she really should not go.

No matter that she wanted more, and he had admitted he wanted more, now was not the time to be having lustful thoughts. Sara took a deep breath and reminded herself, 'I'm here because he's sick and I … care about him. I want to help him, if he'll let me. I need to just be here for him, as a friend.'

As she was contemplating what Grissom might accept from a friend, he stirred again, flinging the pillow aside. His cheeks were flushed, but the rest of his face was ashen beneath the tan.

He screwed up his face in a grimace and then opened his eyes a fraction. They slammed shut immediately and then, as she continued to watch, slowly opened once more. His left hand came up and the fingers stretched to rub his temples; his confusion was evident.

"Sara?" His voice was low. Remembering what he'd said about noise, she replied quietly, "Yeah. How are you doing, Gil?"

"Ugh."

The normally articulate Gil Grissom reduced to grunts - he had to be seriously unwell.

"How many times have you been sick?"

"Umm …" There was a lengthy pause and Sara was about to give up on getting an answer when he held up four fingers.

"Have you been drinking anything?" She couldn't see a glass or cup so already knew the likely answer. Grissom eventually got out, "Not really."

"Wait here," she said, before realising quite how stupid that sounded. Down in the kitchen, she found an empty water bottle, poured in a pinch of salt, some sugar and filled it up with lukewarm water. It was a nasty sounding concoction, but her college roommate, then a pre-med student, had devised it for post-vomiting re-hydration, and swore by it. _Worth a try_, she thought. Screwing on the lid tightly, she shook the mixture well and returned to the bedroom.

"Here, Griss, try this," handing him the opened bottle. "It's not ice cold, so it shouldn't be too much of a shock to your insides." Grissom looked extremely doubtful, but didn't seem to have the will to protest. He edged up onto an elbow, took a tentative sip, screwed up his nose, sipped a little more and gave the bottle back to Sara. He sank back down on the bed, and closed his eyes, yawning. "Going to try … more sleep."

Sara put the bottle down on the bedside table. She hesitantly reached out a hand and carefully pulled the covers up over his exposed shoulder. There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead. She wanted to feel how hot it was, but was wary of overstepping her bounds.

Retiring downstairs, she finally figured out his hi-tech coffee machine, and decided that making a grilled cheese and tomato sandwich wasn't being too presumptuous. She was hungry, and she was staying, so she had to eat.

After flicking through a myriad of channels in a futile search for something viewable, then watching several episodes of _Civilisation_ on DVD, she started on the recent magazines and journals which were neatly stacked on the coffee table. Sara was sitting feet up on the sofa, leafing through a _Scientific American_ when she heard … something from the bedroom. Putting down the magazine, she went upstairs. The bed was empty and the bathroom door ajar, so she halted by the bookshelves, all the while eavesdropping so hard she couldn't pretend she was allowing him his privacy. But she was … concerned. It sounded like he had finally finished vomiting; it was a more mundane bathroom visit.

Sara suddenly realized that her fists were tightly clenched, the skin on her knuckles almost transparent with tension. She drew in a deep breath, and blew it out slowly - once, twice, three times. _Relax_, she told herself She quietly retraced her steps to the sofa, and pretended to do just that.

A decent interval after the flushing noises, she returned to the bedroom, treading heavily on the stairs to announce her arrival. A boxer-clad Grissom was pulling on a T-shirt. When it was in place, she ventured, "How are you feeling?"

"Sara … you're here." Frowning in thought, he asked, "Were you here before? I thought maybe it was a dream."

"I've been here a while." He nodded slowly, and she repeated, "How are you?"

Grissom was cautiously moving his head from side to side, then tried a very tentative neck roll. He sat down heavily at the foot of the bed. "Um, ah … better?"

She raised her eyebrows comically. "Hey, I'm asking the questions here."

"I guess … not so bad. Improving."

"Are you normally so sick with migraines?" She pointed to her stomach region.

"Ah, no. It only happens if I don't take the meds soon enough. I was so tired, this one snuck up on me while I was asleep, so I didn't see the warning signs."

Sara picked up her bottled confection and thrust it pointedly under Grissom's nose. He recoiled, waving his hands feebly in protest. "Please, no! I _do_ remember that stuff. It's disgusting."

Sara aimed at sounding firm but not pushy as she urged him, "Gil, you really need to re-hydrate, you know."

He bowed his head, rubbing the nape of his neck wearily. "Never picked you for a Nurse Ratched type." There was a glimmer of a grin on his lips as he sighed mightily and resignedly reached for the bottle. Three swallows and a shudder later he said, "Yep, sweet seawater."

Sara smiled encouragingly and indicated, _more_.

"That … drink … is undrinkable. Unfit. For. Human. Consumption," he emphasized. "I've got some V8 in the fridge, or I'll drink unadulterated water." It was time to concede on the drink point, so Sara fetched some of both then inquired, "Do you need anything for your head?"

Grissom grumbled, "I don't know how much I absorbed and what got flushed. But too much of the medication ruins me for longer than the malady."

"Do you want to take an OTC something?"

He considered the idea. "No, I'll wait for a bit. The pain's fading and I like to avoid taking pills if I can." He lifted his hands up to massage his temples.

"I can--" started Sara. "Can I help? I did a massage course last year." He looked at her curiously. She explained, "Part of my trying to get a life outside of work." She grinned wryly at him and was rewarded with a faint smile. He shrugged and looked at her. "That sounds good. How, where, do you want me?"

Sara allowed a lascivious leer to linger a moment on her face.

"Haha, Sara, but …"

"Sorry. Trying for levity, seemed to veer toward lewd. I can adapt to whatever's most comfortable for you."

He looked suddenly shy, but nevertheless spoke, "I don't like lying on my stomach - I always feel like I'm going to suffocate."

Sara looked at him, sitting hunched over at the foot of the bed. "How about as you are?" Leaning further forward caused too much pounding in his head, so she got him to put his hands on his knees to act as a prop. She stood before him, right in front of his knees.

_First, deft light circles around the temples._ Initially Grissom tensed, then he became more comfortable and leant into the pressure. _Then to the shoulders, starting around the spine and spreading out to the muscles of the upper back - kneading, rubbing, softening knots, releasing tension, dissipating pain. _Sara edged a little closer, standing between his knees; he rested his forehead on her abdomen, and his hands ended up on her hips. _Long strokes up the neck to the base of the skull - _tingling shivered down his spine.

She stopped for a moment to stretch and flex her fingers, then resumed their ministrations, now on the scalp. Occasional grunts of pleasure from Grissom punctuated the quiet. Although innocent, it seemed a very intimate clutch. She was having to force herself to concentrate on the therapeutic purpose of her massaging, because she felt very … warm.

"This isn't exactly a traditional position, you know." "Mm - feels good though," he mumbled to her navel. "All the same, I'm going to try a variation." She moved onto the bed, kneeling behind him.

She continued to work, mostly on the shoulders and down the spine, finishing by returning to the base of the skull and finally the temples. They remained there for a few moments, communing peacefully - her chin resting lightly on his head, his back pressed gently against her front, her arms crossed loosely around his shoulders.

"Sara, that was … wonderful. Sorry I'm being so … pathetic."

She smiled to herself, happy that he was willing to even let her be there. "It's a whole lot better than whiney, but I admit you've got pathetic down pat."

His breathing was deep and slow, and he seemed not far off sleep. "Hey, Griss, time to lie down again." He clearly agreed as he turned and crawled, child-like, up toward the pillows. He stretched out and peered at Sara with sleepy eyes.

She got off the bed, pulled the covers over him, and patted his shoulder. "Rest now."

TBC


	10. A love like ours

**Cotidie **

**Author: **wobbear

**Rating:** T (Teen – mostly for a couple of crime scene descriptions)  
**Disclaimer:** The story is mine. The characters within, however, are not.  
**Spoilers?** _Grave Danger_ in particular. Anything to the end of season 6 is fair game, although the time frame is really from the end of _Grave Danger_ to before the start of season 6.  
**A/N** In case you've been wondering, the chapter titles are loosely based on snippets of lines in a James Taylor song, "Everyday" (Cotidie latin for every day/daily). It came up on the shuffle function on my ipod when I had written a few chapters, and I decided it was a way to give the chapters titles rather than just numbers. (The fact that it mentions rollercoasters was the selling point). Of course, you may have noticed, but been too kind to mention it.  
The time line in this chapter may be a bit fuzzy – please just go with the flow. And … forget it, here's chapter 10. One more to go, aiming to post on Sunday.  
Thank you for reading, and reviewers, I love hearing from you.

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Chapter 10: A love like ours**

She was trapped. Or rather, her left arm was, so the effect was the same.

Before he succumbed to sleep, Grissom had perked up enough to persuade Sara to join him on the bed. To relax, he said, after her magnificent massaging exertions. He pouted at her protestation that she was fine and would go make herself some coffee. Then he disputed her assertion that he would surely prefer to be alone – being used to solitude didn't mean he wanted it, he insisted.

The final straw was his blatant attempt to guilt her into it, by playing the "I'm sick and may need nurse Sara" card. He blinked what he thought was appealingly at her and she dissolved into a fit of giggles. "That is _so_ not going to work!"

But then he floored her by saying simply, "Please?"

Shoes off, she lay down facing him, and he reached out for her left hand. They lay there a few minutes, quietly gazing at each other, his thumb gently rubbing the back of her hand. Grissom was having trouble keeping his eyes from closing, and when he forced them open for the third time, Sara said firmly, "Go. To. Sleep. Gil."

When he finally drifted off to sleep, he kept hold of her hand. After about 15 minutes he rolled over onto his right side, away from her and – she knew not why – Sara hadn't taken the chance to wriggle her hand free.

And so she had ended up, loosely spooning Grissom's back. His hands softly clamped her hand and forearm against his stomach. It was past midnight, early in their usual working 'day', and Sara was wide awake - whereas Grissom's normal sleep had been disrupted by the vomiting, and he was now sleeping off the migraine.

Finally forced by her bladder to make a move, Sara held her breath and withdrew her arm in one swift motion. He didn't stir, and the tension she hadn't realized she'd been feeling faded away. She repaired to the guest bathroom downstairs, to avoid any noise reaching him.

Relieved in more ways than one, Sara returned to Grissom's bedside to check on him. He was sleeping soundly, mouth very slightly open, with gentle snuffling snores. He looked younger, the relaxation of sleep loosening the lines drawn by life. She felt very protective, and had to stop her hand reaching out to further smooth the creases on his forehead.

ooooooooo

Sara had taken up residence on Grissom's largest sofa, where she had room to stretch out completely. It was miles bigger than the small two-seater on the other side of the coffee table, which for some odd reason she recalled from her one previous visit to Grissom's home. Several hours passed while she alternately dozed and attacked one of Grissom's puzzles, wondering if cryptic crosswords were really her thing. She had progressed as far as contemplating leaving a note and going home, when she heard movement from above. Grissom soon appeared at the top of the stairs tugging on a robe, head bent as he tied the belt. Then he slowly made his way down, rubbing his face awake. A sleepy smile started when he saw she was still there, and she rose to meet him at the foot of the stairs. He opened his arms and she stepped into the embrace as if it were a practised maneuver.

At first tentative, their kiss rapidly became more involved, hot moist lips parting, bodies pressing closer, savoring the sensations. At length, satisfied for now and needing air, they pulled back slightly to stand with foreheads touching, as they breathed deeply. Grissom's hands cupping her face, hers toying with the tiny curls at the nape of his neck.

"Feeling better, huh?" mumbled Sara.

"Y'think?"

Eventually they moved to sit on high stools by the kitchen island, and in happy silence Sara brewed them tea, which she'd found earlier in a canister on the bench. It looked a little dusty, and turned out to taste somewhat stale, so she made a mental note to get fresh supplies for her next visit. _Of which there would be many, she hoped._

"How do you really feel?"

"Really? Not bad at all. Sort of washed out and a bit feeble, but that's it. I might take a a nap this afternoon, but I've had so much sleep recently it probably won't happen. If I take it easy, and go to bed earlyish tomorrow morning, I'll be fine. And now, I'm hungry." Eager eyes darted toward the fridge and he made to get up. Sara stopped him with a hand on his forearm. "I hope you don't mind, but I've checked. You supplies are running low, … but … I could do scrambled eggs and toast," she concluded in a rush.

"Ah … do you cook?" He looked – Sara paused to figure it out – strangely sad. She asked him why.

An enormous sigh, and then he muttered, "I don't even know if you can cook scrambled eggs."

Sara wasn't getting it – hadn't she offered to cook them? "What do you mean?"

"Uh … there's so much I don't know about you, so much time I've wasted." His eyes were downcast and he was fiddling with the roughly-knotted belt of his robe.

Sara considered him thoughtfully. Sure, he was still feeling the after effects of the migraine, but nevertheless, he shouldn't be so low.

"Gil, I think you need a mantra."

He didn't speak, but his thoughts were clearly along the lines of "Have you gone nuts, lady!"

"Bear with me, okay?" The idea had just jumped into her head, but the more she thought about it, the better it was. It was a tad silly, perhaps, but she really wanted to help him lighten up. "I sense you're not wild on the term 'mantra'," she drawled.

He mumbled, "S'okay for followers of some eastern religions."

"Let's start over. We were sitting here talking about breakfast and you launched into an existential crisis." He quirked an eyebrow at that and she re-phrased, "Alright, that's overstating it, but you … freaked out, big time."

"Mmmm … maybe a little."

Sara rolled her eyes, knowing he was still navel-gazing. She reached out and took his hand, her fingers rubbing the smooth grooves between his knuckles as she sought the right words. "First off, the time thing. There's nothing either of us can do about the past. I'm not saying we should forget about that … personal wasteland we were in, or that we shouldn't have regrets about it. I regret a lot of things: that you wouldn't tell us, well, me about your hearing;" – he looked startled – "that you spoke to a murder suspect, not me, about your feelings; that your best line to stop me going on a leave of absence was--" She stopped herself: she was beginning to get a little antsy, and this was very old news. "You know what? You were there, you know all this." She drew in a long slow breath, then continued, "The only thing we can hope to affect is what happens from now on. Every day, we have the chance to make new choices."

"Logically, you know that, don't you Doctor PhD?" He was being child-like, she could be childish in return. She straightened out the fingers of the hand she was playing with, and drew her fingers underneath them, in a sort of low impact, slow motion "gimme 5" slap. Ending the gentle caress, she tugged his hand closer.

"But emotionally, it's a whole 'nother matter," he finally spoke, glancing up cautiously. "I regret an awful lot about my past behaviour toward you, Sara, and although I want to move forward, sometimes it sneaks up on me when my guard is down."

"Yeah, and I understand that, I do. So, on to my other point – if there's something you don't know, or even idly wonder about, on what I think, do, hate, whatever … _ask_ me. Don't beat yourself up about not knowing, and try not to lurch back into unpleasant memories. I know it's not easy, but we're going to be spending more time together – you'll get to know more about me than either of us wants you to know!" She grimaced in mock horror. "Look, I'm the champion of over-thinking, and I don't want competition. Just try to relax, and remember you can talk to me. That's your mantra."

"I don't have to sit cross-legged and hum atonally?" He was starting to loosen up. "That's good, my knees don't do contortions."

Suddenly he turned to her wearing his scientific inquiring face, and asked, "How are you so well adjusted?" She snorted with laughter, and finally got out, "Uh, what?"

"Compared to me, I mean."

She suppressed another laugh, and one possible response, instead replying, "Everything is relative?"

"Exactly, and compared to me, you seem to have so many more clues about how to go about this … _this_." He waggled his hand between them.

"Ha! I'm mostly making it up as I go along. But there is one big difference between us - don't look so worried," she added. "I've been thinking about how it might be for years, while you were in denial, trying your damndest not to think about it." She smiled at him, trying to take the edge off.

"Huh. That's … a good point." He mused on it briefly, and then said, "OK. I'll do the eggs while you tell me what sort of things you like to cook."

ooooooooo

Grissom made excellent scrambled eggs - _egg beaters_ really; he was watching his cholesterol – while Sara operated the toaster. Their unspeaking ease in working crime scenes together seemed to transfer fluidly to the unaccustomed domestic setting – neither wanted to break the spell by mentioning it though. 

Slowly they ventured tentative first steps in opening up to each other – little, easy things at first to get accustomed to the idea. She had gotten back into the habit of cooking after being rattled by the case of the virtual shut-in, who ordered in all her food, whereas he said had always enjoyed experimenting in the kitchen. Sara grinned at him, and he realized what she was thinking. "Hey, I don't put it all under the microscope!" He said that he had been _trying _– he emphasized the verb – some fully-vegetarian dishes recently, "You know, because you …". Her soft finger brush on his furry jawline stopped his stumbling. "Yeah, I know. Thank you." She detailed some of her recent favorites, which concentrated on stir-frying, inspired by the meal at Chinese Whispers.

Soon, they were dealing with the few dishes, with Grissom drying because, as he said, he knew where things went. Sara decided now was not the time to mention that, when he was asleep, she had whiled away some time familiarizing herself with his cupboards' contents. Putting the flatware away in its drawer next to the fridge, he caught sight of the calendar he'd magnetized to the fridge door. A moment's calculation: yes, today was good. No time like the present – carpe diem and all that, he told himself.

"Sara, we're both off tonight … would you like to go out this evening?"

"You sure you're up to the whole dinner thing?" she asked doubtfully.

"Dinner? No, ah, I was thinking about eating a few peanuts at most."

"We're … going to feed monkeys?" she asked uncertainly. "I happen to know the zoo closes at 5, but do you know someone there?"

"Where did that come from? Baseball, I'm suggesting going to a ball game."

"Oh."

"Oh?"

"I mean, yeah, sounds good. I was … distracted by the peanuts. I used to watch my brother play, way back when, and I went to a few Giants' games in San Francisco. But won't the lights be too much for you and, uh, the activity?"

"No, I'll wear shades and look really cool," he grinned goofily. "Seriously, no problem with light now. And it's nowhere near the strain of work, and I won't even have to walk much. I've been sleeping on and off for 24 hours, I want to get out of this house, with you."

"What happened to your smooth talking? Is that the way you ask me out on our first date?" She was grinning with glee that he'd gotten comfortable enough to simply speak his mind, and hadn't thought about the symbolic nature of this first outing. Admittedly, they had been to that movie, but she didn't qualify that as a date – that just sort of … happened.

He bit his lip and shifted awkwardly, until Sara took pity on him and said,

"C'mon, Gil, despite your concerns, you know me well enough. I'm the one who was always wishing you'd take me to the body farm when you went on your nights off. I don't have stereotypical expectations about what will happen, when or how – only, I don't know, you're so easy to goad, sometimes I just can't resist. I admit it's not one of my better qualities."

He muttered something unintelligible, and tried to appear annoyed.

"So, tell me, what baseball is there to see in Vegas?" Her question was an olive branch, and he accepted it, albeit with a teeny huff. "There's a triple-A minor league team based here, the Las Vegas 51s – they're a farm team for the Dodgers. I, uh, have a double season ticket."

She raised her eyebrows. "You must go to a lot of games."

"You'd think so," he said, "But no."

He explained that he had come across a high school friend of Warwick's in the course of work. The friend, Richard, was the 51s' batting coach, and had practically forced free tickets on him. "Of course, I couldn't accept a gift from a member of the public, and particularly not someone connected with a victim, for anything related to work. So we did a kind of a deal; I paid for the tickets, and he wangles it that I get really good seats when I do go."

He reflected a moment, then added, "I only make it there very occasionally, and even less often go with someone. Warwick's come a few times, Brass and Doc Robbins both. But the good thing is they play mostly night games, and it's usually possible to see a whole game before shift."

Sara came over to look at the calendar too, checked her watch and said, "Wow, it's nearly noon already. The game starts at 7:05. How's this – I go home, have a nap and a shower, then come back and pick you up round 6:30? That way you won't have to drive, less concentration and stress for you."

So that was fixed, until Grissom became concerned that she wouldn't have had enough rest. Once assured she had already slept some on his sofa, and truly planned to catch more Zs that afternoon, he relented.

Then he began getting twitchy about the fact he wouldn't be driving, and they weren't going out to a nice restaurant. "As you pointed out, Sara, it's our first date. I want to do it … right."

It was sort of sweet, but Sara was exasperated. "Gil, it's not what we do, but that we do it together. A baseball game sounds like fun, if I'm going with you. I just want to do things with you."

"I--sorry." Grissom was a little sheepish. He tried again, "That's what I want too."

Going to the door to say goodbye they were suddenly moving in slow motion, knowing they would see each other again soon, but reluctant to part. Farewells took a long while, and threatened to take transport them to the sofa, instead of Sara out the door. At last, Grissom stepped back a few inches, studying Sara's flushed face and glowing eyes - he knew they mirrored his. He regarded her a longer tender moment as their breathing slowed. Then he glanced down at his bare feet, took in a big gulp of air, and focussed on her eyes.

"Sara, I don't want ever to be too late with you, so you'll have to put up with me sometimes jumping the gun." She nodded, wondering what was coming next.

"Sara, Sara, Sara …"

_Yes, yes, yes, _she thought in a silent whisper.

"You do know that I love you, right?"

TBC


	11. Take me out to the ball game

**Cotidie**

**Author: **wobbear  
**Rating:** T (Teen – brief mention of sexual crime in this chapter)  
**Disclaimer:** The story is mine. The characters within, however, are not - except for a couple of minor OCs in this chapter.  
**Spoilers?** _Grave Danger_ in particular. Anything to the very end of _Way to Go_ is fair game, though the time frame is from the end of _Grave Danger_ to before the start of season 6.

**A/N** Lady Belle was correct, in chapter 10 I did mean Warrick Brown, not a mysterious OC with no backstory called Warwick.  
This chapter involves a certain something seen in the season 6 finale. But (like the hat in chapter 1) I say it's been Grissom's for a lot longer than when we saw it in _Way to Go. _Oh, and that thing about the chapter titles in my last note? I ran out of phrases to use.  
This has been a novel experience for me, and surprisingly fun. Thank you for reading, and heartfelt thanks to those you have reviewed, some very faithfully all the way through. I really appreciate it. Shutting up now - here's the final chapter.

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**Chapter 11: Take me out to the ball game **

Around the appointed time, as Sara was climbing out of her car and walking up to Grissom's townhouse, her thoughts turned back a few hours, to when she'd left. After Grissom's startling revelation, Sara had been speechless – which didn't happen often, she reflected. He'd added hurriedly, "Please don't say anything. I just … had to. Thank you for not giving up on me." A warm finger on her lips pressed home his plea, followed by another kiss, then he softly shoved her out the door.

It wasn't so much that she was surprised by his words, it was that he actually realized it himself and was prepared to say it. Well, OK, maybe she was a _teeny_ bit – or maybe a great big heart-thumping amount – surprised. _Didn't see that one coming._

All thoughts of love swept from her mind as a smiling Grissom opened his front door, wearing nicely faded old jeans and a … casual shirt. She began to point at it, then started to giggle, before valiantly trying to rein in her rising mirth.

"Don't stand there looking stupid." He tugged her gently inside. She covered her smiling mouth, but the sparkling brown eyes betrayed her.

"_What_?" He was doing a good impression of being indignant. "You haven't seen me out of work clothes much have you? For work I have this bland almost uniform – don't grin evilly like that - it helps me, and I think others, focus on the job. And the shopping's easy – if I find something that fits, I buy five at a time."

"OK, that explains quite a lot."

"Huh? I wanted something totally different to help me detach from work, and I found this in, uh, some department store. It's made by Tommy someone." He plucked the fabric with his fingers. "It's soft and loose … with whimsical palm fronds and little stars – or maybe they're tiny suns," he mused, peering at his sleeve, "Nice basic color."

"I do like the blue," admitted Sara. "But whimsy and you – well, it's a … novel combination for me."

"Look," he went on, starting to sound defensive. "It's not like it's fluorescent hibiscus. I also wear T-shirts from my cousin's kids, with luridly-colored messages like 'you don't bug me, I'm an entomologist' and 'I "heart" bugs'. I keep trying to get the kids to call them insects …" He trailed off, recalling several conversations with small children on that subject.

Sara was still trying, not very successfully, to hide her grin and to suppress the laughter that threatened to burst out. "Gil, don't get so worked up about it."

"OK, so maybe I don't have any fashion sense. They're clothes, I wear them. But I _like_ this shirt."

"Damn, you're cute when you pout. How about this? I like that you like it. Just one question, you didn't buy five of them, did you?"

He snorted at her and refused to answer, rolling his lips inside his mouth until he looked very like a Cabbage Patch kid. He stared at her, as if daring her to ask again. Casting around for a change of subject, Sara glanced at her watch, and asked, "Shouldn't we be going?"

ooooooooooo

Ushering Sara out before him, Grissom checked the door was locked and pocketed the keys. Then he stretched out a hand and grabbed one of Sara's, whirling her back round to face him. Her surprised "Wha—?" was silenced by a thorough kiss.

"Why don't we try that over again?" He smiled into her confused eyes and said, "Hi, Sara. You look beautiful." Then he gestured 'your turn'.

"Hey, Griss, amazing shirt!"

He put his hands into his pockets and stood there, considering. "Hmmm. That's … better."

Approaching Sara's car, Grissom remarked, "This is one of those hybrids, isn't it? Somewhat unusual, ah, distinctive lines, aren't they?"

"Yeah, no one ever said that saving the planet would be easy. But I don't spend a whole lot on gas."

"I'll bet you recyle too, don't you?"

"Sure do. Glass, paper, cardboard, plastic, metal – whatever they'll take." Part of her wondered whether he was trying to niggle her after the shirt incident, but she decided he was probably trying in his slightly weird, Grissom-ish way to make conversation.

They got in and buckled up. Before turning car on, she looked over at him as she thought, then decided to speak. "You asked me not to say anything earlier, but I need to say this, Gil." Grissom bit his lip and forced himself not to interrupt. "One thing you're going to have to remember is that you can't ask me not to speak my mind." He nodded silently, and waited for her to continue.

"Maybe we're doing this backward, but since when have we been normal? That's a rhetorical question," she added hastily. "I want to you to keep one thing in mind. Giving up was never an option. I love you."

Suddenly it was impossible for him to speak. He lifted her right hand to his lips, and held it there a long moment, his blue eyes glistening with joy.

ooooooooooo

Once under way, Grissom directed her to US 95, on which they headed north before exiting onto North Las Vegas Boulevard, and soon arrived at Cashman Field. Getting out of the car, they came together by the front bumper, both for an instant looking anxious. Then Grissom's lips curved upward and his eyes crinkled as he raised his hands to cup them over her shoulders. Sara gazed back at him steadily.

"We're really doing this, aren't we? I'm not dreaming?" he asked.

"Nope, this is reality, and not one of those ridiculous TV shows."

"Luckily no one would ever want to make a show with us in it? Can you imagine!" They rolled their eyes at the thought and started toward the Cashman Center. Grissom's light hand low on Sara's back gently pointed her to the correct entrance for the stadium.

As they were entering the concourse, Grissom was hailed by a skinny blond man. The guy was in a blue Tshirt sporting the team logo, which included a small alien face tucked into the curve of the 5. "Oh, Area 51, right?" checked Sara. Grissom nodded his affirmative, then greeted and shook hands with Richard Robson. He introduced Sara as "a very good friend". _That'll do very well for now_, she thought. Richard showed them to their seats, then had to run.

"Seats behind home plate, I'm impressed," said Sara, taking in the view. "You didn't say how it was that you met Richard."

"No, I didn't." Grissom looked around carefully. They had arrived in very good time, and none of the seats nearby were occupied as yet. He cocked his head and looked at her, beginning in a low voice, "It was a few years ago, when Warrick was a rookie CSI. Richard's young cousin Chloë was attacked, and raped, while she was walking home from her high school basketball practice. I had to do the victim interview – Catherine was … I don't recall, but back then it's very likely she was dealing with an Eddie problem. As you know, we always try to have a woman do the VI, and I wasn't eager to do it myself." His voice faded away into his memories.

Sara reached for his left hand and sandwiched it between hers, in her lap. A faint smile flitted over Grissom's face, and he went on, "Whatever, time was of the essence, and I was the available CSI. She was … amazingly brave … and gave me a detailed description of her assailant. He was a serial, and Chloë's evidence tied her attack to the previous cases. And her statement supported the limited physical evidence we were able to gather – the guy wore a condom, but fortunately for us he slipped up. Chloë was only thirteen, so he got life." Sara gave a grim nod of satisfaction and squeezed his hand.

"I-I-" He was either hesitating, or searching for words. "Even so, the main thing I remember is how uncomfortable I felt about taking her statement – part of me wondered how she could possibly relate it to me, a man; another part couldn't stand to hear what others of my gender can do."

"You're not like them, Griss."

"I know, I do, but it was … I don't know, I hear this stuff all the time, but sometimes …"

"Sometimes it's incredibly hard to take the distance you need to do the job," interrupted Sara.

Grissom looked infinitely relieved. "Yeah, exactly."

"I've had the occasional problem with that myself," she pointed out. "We both need …" she began, "… A diversion," he finished with a small smile.

"We're quite a pair aren't, we?" she murmured, eyes warm.

"I hope we will be," he replied with absolute gravity. He let out a shaky laugh and said, "I guess going to a ball game isn't a bad start."

ooooooooooo

Gradually more people trickled into the ground, finding their seats while the players warmed up in the outfield. Grissom had slipped back to a refreshment stand to get large lemonades, which they sipped as they surveyed the scene. Sara decided to support the visiting team, the Iowa Cubs – because, she reasoned, they were a long way from home, had cute bear cubs on their shirts and the 51s would have more than enough support.

"Is a cute logo really a good reason for supporting a team?" asked Grissom playfully.

"Weellll. I mostly said that to see your reaction, but when it comes down to it, I'm not wild on the idea of aliens. That case that Nick I worked, the DB found in the desert wearing a spacey sorta suit, and those people – watching for, hoping to see extra terrestrials? – they're … plain odd. I have enough to do trying to figure out the world we live in; I don't want to seek life beyond the ozone layer."

"Isn't that rather narrow-minded for a scientist?"

Sara looked at him – he couldn't be serious, could he? A faint glint in his eye and lips pressed too firmly closed belied his words, revealing the humor he was trying to hide.

"Anyway, I like bears. Omigod, what is that … _thing _over there!" A large creature covered in gray plush and wearing a blue Tshirt was bouncing around in one of the aisles.

Grissom looked a bit squirmy as he replied, "That's, ah, 'Cosmo', the 51s' mascot. Silly thing, for the kids …"

"OK, see, now I rest my case. I cannot support a team which has a furry alien for a mascot." Sara looked immensely satisfied, and added a "Go Cubbies!" for good measure. Grissom squinted at her and kept his own counsel, but didn't bother now to conceal his grin.

ooooooooooo

Teams introduced and national anthem sung, the game got under way. Grissom occasionally shared snippets of information about 51s players, and Sara read out fascinating facts from the souvenir program she'd purchased.

Flicking through the program, Sara came to the scoring record page. Folding it fully open, she offered it to Grissom. "Here, d'you want to keep score?"

"Well," he looked shiftily past her, "I … do sometimes. But not tonight."

"I won't hassle you about it, if that's what you're thinking. It just struck me as the sort of thing you might do."

He folded the booklet closed and laid it softly back in her lap. "You're very perceptive."

"I'm a CSI, remember?"

"I do remember. Sara … I didn't intend to talk about work, but I want to say this. You're the best CSI I've ever come across, bar none. I can still give you a good run for your money, but only because I've got more years on the job, so I've got more accumulated experience and knowledge. I've never told you this, I've never told anyone. I … you deserve to know."

"Thank you." A satisfied smile warmed her face. "That's good to hear …. But what about our diversion?"

"Sorry, I'm not very good at this." Wearing a silly stern face, he mimed writing. "Note it down on my personal report card: 'Must try harder to detach from work'. Uh, what were we talking about before?"

"Score keeping."

"Yeah … I only ever do it when I'm by myself, for something to do. Tonight you're here."

"I'm something to do!" she wiggled her eyebrows at him, laughing.

He pursed his lips at her, and stated firmly, "I have absolutely _no_ desire to keep score tonight."

"You don't want to note down who got to first base, second or even third?"

"I suspect you're not talking about baseball now, Ms Sidle."

A sudden flurry of excitement on the field startled them out of their banter. "Hey, Dr Grissom, I think someone scored a home run." Sara smiled sweetly and pretended to note it down.

"Okay, you asked for it. What has 18 legs and catches flies?"

"Are entomological questions really a diversion for you?"

"This riddle has very little to do with insects." Grissom kinked his fingers in outsize quote marks around his ears and, imitating a program voice-over, intoned, "No insects were harmed during the making of this joke". He looked expectantly at Sara.

"C'mon, think about it … it's not that hard," he wheedled. "Where are we?"

"Where are we? Cashman Field, Las Vegas, the US, the universe …" She tried a bit harder for a couple of seconds, but her mind was swirling with fun and she couldn't get it. "Nope, I give up. So tell me, what on earth has 18 legs and catches flies?"

"Sure? You're going to kick yourself …" Sara could care less: this light-hearted kidding was unprecedented and she never wanted it to end.

Grissom paused for effect, and then announced, "A baseball team."

Sara groaned loudly and swatted his shoulder. "_Sheesh_, fly balls? That's … so sad."

Grissom simply smirked and gave a small 'I don't care' shrug. She hit-and-run kissed the smirk away.

ooooooooooo

At the top of the fifth, Grissom raised his left arm and snugged it around her shoulders. Sara wiggled sideways to get closer, and lay her right hand on his thigh. It was too warm to cuddle up, really, but that wasn't an issue. He turned his head and breathed in the scent of Sara, and she felt the steady thumping of his heart against her arm. A bases-loaded home run could have been scored and they would have been none the wiser.

Beneath their feet were the mangled remains of many peanut shells, torn open during the previous innings. Grissom had bought them from a wandering vendor, and presented them to Sara with a flourish. "I promised you peanuts."

"And peanuts is what I got." She dove into them, shelling ten with an expert's speed, and tried to talk through them, "Hey, feez uh rilly yum."

Sometime after the Cubs pitcher had given away another walk, Grissom turned and stroked some hair off Sara's neck. Then he bent his head down and brushed his lips just below her jawline. Warming to the task, he placed feather-light kisses over all accessible portions of her neck, lifting her hair to nuzzle beneath her ear.

"Um, Gil? That's … nice, but—" Secretly, it was a bit tickly – no way was she going to mention that. "But don't ball parks try to be family–friendly? Public necking isn't something they'd be too keen on."

"We're not necking," he mumbled, continuing his mission. Sara pulled away a few inches and he glanced up. "I'm nibbling your neck. Very tasty it is too." She put her hand over his mouth and guided his face away with firm fingers on his chin.

He glared mildly at her, and scanned the nearby spectators. "These people are all adults; no kids close enough to corrupt with my affectionate attentions. Besides, most people are watching the game."

The crowd stirred as a Cubs batter hit a sharp ground ball toward left field and raced for first, and the 51s scrambled to execute a double play. In a flash, Grissom's attention was back on the game. The runner to second was caught out, but the throw to first was too late to complete the play.

Excitement over, he turned back to Sara, suddenly worried. "Are you enjoying yourself?"

"Yes! Come on, let's watch the game."

ooooooooooo

After the top of the seventh inning, the 51s were two runs ahead, and the Cubs had already gone through three pitchers. Over the PA, the announcer exhorted the crowd to stand for the traditional seventh inning stretch. It was good to stand and do just that. Grissom was intrigued to see that Sara not only knew the words to "Take Me out to the Ballgame", but also thrust her arm out, marking each counted strike with another pointing finger, along with the baseball regulars.

At the end of the song, Sara asked Grissom to let her past. "Restroom," she explained. Instead of making himself small to let her go by, Grissom grasped her hand, turned, and cleared the way, excusing their way past the people in the row. Sara, bemused, allowed herself to be towed along.

Once they were able to walk side by side, Grissom remarked, "You seem to be very familiar with the 'stretch' ritual."

"Mmmm, I have a good memory. It's all part of the fun, isn't it?"

They reached the female restroom first, and Sara said, "OK, this is me. Where shall I meet you?"

"I'll be by that pillar over there." He indicated the one he meant.

"No, I can come and meet you half way, a tiny walk would be good. Which direction is the Men's?"

"I'm not going anywhere, I'll be right over there."

Sara was going to query that, but realized she should go in and stake her claim in the likely line before her need became pressing. When she eventually emerged, sure enough Grissom was leaning against the designated pillar. Spotting her, he pushed himself vertical and moved forward. A soft kiss, a quiet "OK?" and he took her hand once more. "Is there anything else you'd like while we're here – more food or drink, a 51s' cap?" His eyes twinkled at the last suggestion.

"No, I'm good, thanks." As they headed back to their seats, Sara asked, "Why did you come out with me? You didn't need to."

He looked sideways at her, wondering how best to answer. "For a walk?"

"Wait – you escorted me?"

Grissom found himself wanting to adjust his glasses, but he wasn't wearing any. "Uh … yes. I wasn't sure if you'd be OK with it, so I was trying to be … surreptitious." He grinned wryly, "I realize that sounds pretty stupid. Escorting by stealth!"

"You don't have to be so coy. It's … sweet that you want to, chivalrous even. Only … I haven't had anyone who _wanted_ to look out for me, to protect me, for … a very long time. I'm not used to it."

"You'll have to get used to it," he whispered almost under his breath.

"I will, but you need to know that I feel the same about you." She glanced over at him; he was listening intently. "Not that I plan to accompany you to restrooms! My concern will show itself in other ways, which you may find hard to handle. After all, you've been solitary and ultra-independent for longer than me."

"Sara, I'll do everything in my power to adapt, to understand. I can't be that hermit any more."

Arriving back at the end of their row, Grissom once more led the way. When he reached his seat, he shuffled back as far as space allowed, and Sara edged past, helped by gentle hands floating on her hips.

ooooooooooo

The later stages of the game unfolded with no further runs until the bottom of the ninth, when the Cubs got a grand slam, giving them an unassailable lead.

As they got up to leave, Sara turned to Grissom. "This was a great idea, thank you."

"Yeah, your team won." He tried to sound morose, but his heart wasn't in it and he admitted, "I had a good time too. Y'know, sometimes after the game they have fireworks – nothing like the huge displays some of the casinos put on, but fun to watch."

"I love fireworks."

"OK, it's a date … another date," he amended.

Progress out through the crowded concourse was slow and they linked arms to keep together. Once out the doors into the parking lot, the throng thinned quickly as people peeled off to their vehicles.

They wandered slowly over to Sara's car, enjoying the relative quiet after all the hubbub of the game. Still arm-in-arm she unlocked it with the remote, and Grissom accompanied her to the driver's side.

"Sara, I'm not ready for this evening to end. Will you … stay for a while when we get back to my place?"

Her lips answered as she leaned forward and planted a warm kiss on his. He drew her near and made more of it, pressing tightly, lips tasting, tongue teasing. Electricity fizzed between them as they angled to get even closer. Now she was leaning against the car, his legs straddling her. She gave as good as she got … and it was becoming heated. Pulses pounding, eager hands ranging wildly, hot hungry mouths. It was going on and on, and they were still in the parking lot.

"Ahhh - Gil, how about we take this home?" She pushed him very slightly back, hands on his heaving chest.

"Sara--" He was trying to catch his breath. "I know we agreed to go slowly, but what if we … speed it up a bit?"

She cocked her head and pursed her lips as she pretended to consider.

"After all, now I've got my mantra in case I start to freak out …" He smiled sappily at her and coaxed further. "D'you mind if we take … some things a whole lot faster?"

She opened the car door and jumped in, grinning up at him. "What are you standing there for?"

FINITO

A/N just for the record, I'm with Grissom on the shirt.


	12. Epilogue

**Cotidie**

**Author:** wobbear  
**Rating:** M (Mature – yes, the rating has changed, but don't get _too_ excited).  
**Disclaimer:** The story is mine. The characters are not.  
**Author's notes:** Unlike the original 11 chapters, which were my-eyes-only before posting, versions of this epilogue have been seen and much improved by three special people. Many thanks to: **dreamsofhim**, whose review nudged me to write it in the first place; **Domo Arigato**, for her thoughtful suggestions and comments; and last but not least **PhDelicious**, who has been such a star in beta-ing my recent writing attempts (as well as putting up with my rambling rants about moving).  
**Spoilers/time frame:** The story started at the end of _Grave Danger_ and the time frame goes to before the start of season 6. The epilogue follows on directly from the end of chapter 11.

**Summary:** Months after _Cotidie_ originally ended, here's an epilogue – what happened after the ball game.

**

* * *

Epilogue **

For a moment, Grissom was bereft.

For a mere moment, but bereft nonetheless. One second he'd been plastered all over Sara, kissing her like there was no tomorrow; the next he was standing alone beside the car.

A moment later his brain kicked in and impelled him to the passenger seat.

Carefully fastening his seat belt, he looked over at Sara. She was unabashedly admiring him and he suddenly felt nervous.

He was keen for their relationship to progress to the most intimate level – hell, he had been agitating for it just moments ago. But was he up for it? No, not the most apt turn of phrase. He had no concerns about his physical readiness, but the old bugbear of his mental trepidations was rearing its tedious head. _Would he disappoint her? What if . . .?_

Sara leaned over. Her gentle hand on his cheek turned Grissom's head toward her, dragging his eyes away from their unfocussed view of the Cashman Center. Her smiling face came ever closer as she drew him in toward her welcoming lips.

"Feel, don't think," she whispered. His startled blue eyes met her soft brown ones. He could see the understanding warming them and his concerns melted away. His eyelids closed as he lost himself in the warm questing delight of Sara's lips.

Grissom leaned in closer, cupping the back of her head with a large hand. He laid tender, fleeting kisses all around her mouth, on her chin, on both cheekbones, before Sara was able to maneuver sufficiently to plant a firm one directly on his lips. Once back there, Grissom didn't want to leave. He shifted in his seat to press nearer, holding her tighter. His hands drifted down to her chest and he fondled lightly, feeling the twin contours for the first time.

Behind them, a car horn blared. Grissom's eyes snapped open and the forgotten parking lot came back into view. He sat back, breathing hard, cradling Sara's chin in his palm. "Please, Sara, don't ever doubt that I feel. I _do_ feel. I feel so much, I throb . . .even my toenails are throbbing."

_Damn. That sounded . . . desperate. Shouldn't he have more control at his age? _He risked a glance at Sara and found her grinning at him.

Equally aroused, Sara knew she had to rein back a little to ensure safe driving. "OK, OK, you feel! How do you feel about going home?"

"Hey, that's how you persuaded me into the car, remember?" Grissom leaned across Sara and grabbed the buckle of her seat belt. His hand lingered only briefly on the way as he pulled it across and down, snapping it into the slot.

Finally en route to Grissom's townhouse, Sara stretched her right hand out to brush down his arm. She was thankful for automatic transmission as Grissom caught her hand in his warm grasp and carried the captured prize down to rest on his thigh. He laced his fingers between hers, and rubbed the side of her hand gently with his thumb.

He cleared his throat as he wondered how to say it. Suddenly he found himself speaking, "Uh, I was never much of a Boy Scout, but I'm . . . um, prepared, contraceptive-wise." He shot what he hoped was a responsible, rather than lecherous, look at Sara.

She teased, "What? Didn't they have a bug badge when you were a kid?"

Huh?

He regrouped.

Surprised at his presence of mind, Grissom came back with, "Yes, there was the equivalent of today's 'Insect study' merit badge, but you're avoiding the issue."

"Yeah, I got it, thank you. But, um, I've also got it covered so . . . you don't need to."

"Oh . . . ah . . . good." Grissom sat contemplating that and truly could not think of anything to say.

But it sounded great.

He leaned back against the headrest and tried to relax. Several times during the journey he drew Sara's hand up to his lips, bestowing feather-light kisses on each of her knuckles. Once she turned her hand over to cup his chin, stroking the line where smooth cheek gave way to close-trimmed beard.

They made it back to Henderson without incident and got into Grissom's townhouse with only minor delays on the way from the parking lot.

As they swirled through the front door in a passionate clench, Sara heard Grissom murmuring in her left ear, "I want this to be special. It's about our coming together."

As he continued to trail soft kisses along her jawline, Grissom felt Sara's body moving – was it shaking, or shuddering? – against him.

He stopped to look at her.

Her lips were pressed together firmly, her eyes alive with amusement. Grissom pulled back slightly, frowning.

"What? What's so funny? Was I doing something_―_"

She was giggling openly now and managed to squeak out "Griss" before she gave up trying to speak and simply shook her head.

He was befuddled. Why was she laughing at him? He was well aware that he was a bit out of practice, but his tender attentions weren't that pitiful, were they? He was starting to feel a touch insecure by the time she got enough control over her vocal chords to speak.

"Gris – som. Gil." She started out very deliberately, enunciating each syllable carefully as she fought to tamp down the effervescence inside her. "I _do_ know what you mean. And it's . . . I want that too. I just, um, took it another way."

"Uh, how?" He was too taken aback by her giggling to work out what she might mean. He didn't like feeling as though he was the butt of a joke he didn't get.

Sara concentrated on a couple of deep, careful breaths before speaking again. "Um . . . it's just that 'coming together,' particularly the first time, is pretty unlikely."

Oh.

That was – perhaps – a tiny bit funny. He narrowed his eyes at her, but no longer felt like frowning. They were getting ever closer to having sex for the first time and that was a pretty good thing. Wonderful in fact, after so many desolate, haunted years of yearning.

_So why was he standing like a fool, squinting at the woman of his dreams?_

There she was in his arms: beautiful, flushed flesh and pounding blood – OK, he was guessing at the latter, but his own pulse was definitely racing.

And here he was, wasting time.

Her words came back to him. 'Feel, don't think.'_ You're thinking too much again. Don't think. Trust your feelings._

And so he did.

-------------------

Grissom's hands inched under the edge of Sara's T-shirt, feeling for the first time the smooth skin of her lower back. His fingers found the delicate twin depressions at the base of her spine, and his thumbs dallied there briefly.

At face level, serious kissing was under way.

Without words, they had agreed to step back from their frenzy at the ball park. There was no doubt what was going to happen tonight, but each wanted to linger a little, to savor the sensations of their first time. Waves of urgency lurked just beneath the surface, surging forth as tongues met and toyed with each other, and receding only slightly as Grissom's lips renewed their tender assault on Sara's neck, while her fingers deftly unfastened the buttons of his shirt.

Her hands slipped under the blue and white fabric, brushing it back over his shoulders. He broke his soft grip on Sara's nape and waist for the instant it took to shake free of the shirt.

Sara's lips were tracing a trail down from the edge of Grissom's beard and approaching his navel when he intervened. "Honey – arms up."

Initially annoyed at his interruption, Sara then realized it was only fair, and helped in the removal of her T-shirt.

Grissom's hands had had no recent practice at undoing bras, but he silently thanked the years of delicate work with evidence, which stood him in good stead. Then all thoughts of work were swept away as Sara dipped her slender fingers inside the back of his jeans and tugged his hips firmly against her. The half-naked full body press was intensely tantalizing.

Grissom dragged his lips away from hers to gasp, "So good, so . . . Sara." Then he gave up trying to speak and tugged her with him as he took a step back so he was leaning on the arm of his big sofa. He drew her into the vee formed by his splayed legs and reached his hand up to caress a breast.

A tiny portion of Sara's brain was still functioning and it was thinking that getting horizontal, and soon, was a great idea. Her body wanted to do things other than remembering how to stand up.

"Mriss, mup?" It was hard to speak while nuzzling the deliciously soft skin just behind his left ear. She forced herself back an inch. "Bed? Up . . . upstairs?"

Grissom was deeply involved in nibbling one of her nipples while he softly kneaded the other breast. He looked up at her, his irises a vivid ring of blue around enormous pupils. "Up? Yeah . . ." He bent back down to his self-appointed task, pulling her nearer.

She resisted. "C'mon, upstairs." Even though she'd previously tested and approved the comfort of Grissom's larger sofa, the bed would allow for more freedom of movement. And she felt like moving, a lot.

-------------------

Turning, Sara grabbed his wrists and made for the stairs. Grissom willingly followed, settling his hands onto her hips and trying to lick the small of her back as she started the climb.

_Had all his inhibitions been shed with the shirt? _Sara momentarily boggled at what might happen once he was completely naked. She kicked off her flip-flops as she went, and his loafers followed suit.

Halfway up the stairs Grissom accelerated, attempting a precarious back-hug. He almost tipped over because he wasn't at all clear on where his feet were. Body contact, as full as possible, was what he craved. His emergency clutch of the handrail and Sara's laughing tug pulled him back from the brink; at last they made it to the library area outside his bedroom.

Still behind her, Grissom was tussling ineffectually with the multi-pronged buckle of Sara's belt while he dipped his mouth into the tasty curve of her neck. Giving up on the belt, he started walking her to the bed, compelling her legs to move with insistent pressure from the rear. He shuffled them closer to the bed and, after turning Sara around for a lengthy sloppy kiss, he gently pressed her to sit down on the end of the mattress.

Sara lay back, undid her jeans and raised a foot to rest on his hip. Waving her other foot at the pants leg, she whispered, "Pull".

There was a slight hitch around the ankle, then it was off. The same procedure, more smoothly executed, followed with the other leg.

She was nearly naked, displayed ravishingly before him, but Grissom was still half-dressed. And his normally loose-fitting jeans were now too tight for comfort. He wanted out – _and then in_, he thought giddily. He dragged Sara's hands to his waist band. Ever quick on the uptake, she undid the button and gently eased the zipper tab down. Her long fingers stroked the hard ridge of his erection through his boxers.

Even as he leaned into her touch, he groaned in near agony. Trying to draw out the pleasure was great in theory, but the demands of his body were becoming petulant. Grissom shoved his jeans down hastily. They dropped to the floor, then he was dismayed to find his feet were ensnared in the crumpled denim. Basic coordination was a monumental effort in his hugely aroused state. He found he had to lean on Sara to wiggle first one foot then the other out of the shambles.

He looked up, feeling stupid, and saw her smiling at him, her cheeks flushed. His momentary unease was dispelled as she quickly shucked her underwear and reached forward to help tug down his boxers.

Finally they were clothing-free and all awkwardness vanished. Sara pulled him down onto the bed and they rolled together, legs entwining and arms everywhere, reveling in the exquisite feeling of skin on skin.

It was too much; it was not enough. Their lips found each other again, and eager tongues deepened the connection.

Their hands ranged feverishly, hips pressed urgently; mumbled endearments mingled with panted breaths.

Grissom trailed his right hand down over her stomach, fingers briefly twirling around her belly button before heading south. He slipped his right hand between Sara's legs and touched her center lightly, barely there.

She jerked away.

He recoiled, perturbed.

"Wha—" He could scarcely speak, let alone think, but he couldn't bear the idea that he'd done something wrong, that Sara wasn't enjoying this. This was a huge step for him, for them. It didn't have to be perfect, but . . . surely they should err on the side of passion, not pain.

Sara's eyes were tightly closed. She was trying to calm down, to last a little longer, but Grissom's tender touch had so nearly undone her. Suddenly she realized that he had pulled away, breaking all contact.

She opened her eyes to see Grissom lying stock-still beside her. Flushed and panting, jaw clenched, he was watching her with dark, misty eyes.

He looked like the world was disintegrating around him as he stammered, "Sorry, I'm sorry, I - - did I hurt—"

_Whuh . . . help!_ She wasn't sure what had happened, just that she was hyper-sensitive. _Wait a sec_, she did recall a jolt. _Had that been her?_

Way to cut the mood. He looked so . . . worried, scared even; Sara rushed to speak, "No, no, NO! You didn't do anything wrong. It was just . . . too much. I - - I . . . we've just waited so long."

He stared at her, still uncertain. She reached out and with whisper-light fingers traced his sternum. Her hand stole up to cup his neck, gently drawing him closer.

Grissom relaxed, his eyes brightening, and his hand snaked out around her hip. "Yeah, we have." He pulled her against him. "Let's not wait any longer."

Doubt disappeared and desire took over. They let their minds go as their bodies united in the age-old way. They gave themselves up to pleasure.

In the afterglow, breathing slowed and hands wandered slowly over newly-discovered skin, until Grissom and Sara drifted off to sleep.

-------------------

It was their regular 'day' time; so both were awake again inside the hour. Sara woke first and lay happily, just watching Grissom sleep.

She had vague memories of hot kisses, urgent caresses, grinding pelvises and enthusiastic thrusting, an awkward cramp in her left hip, sweaty skin, tangled hair, and Grissom crying her name as he followed her into rapture.

Yes, she felt sticky and a little sore, but overarching all was a delicious sense of completeness, of having finally come home.

No, it hadn't been perfect. But she'd never thought it would be. They were both human – very human, she recalled with a thrilled giggle – desperately wanting, and it had been their first time. But they were also scientists, and the prospect of further experiments in this specific area of human biology with the love of her life filled Sara with renewed glee.

The man in question was now resting peacefully beside her, the lines of his face smoothed by sleep. He seemed to be smiling. Sara leaned over and brushed his lips with the merest of kisses. She was dismayed to see his eyes open as she drew back.

Grissom was waking up from a beautiful dream. He could feel a soft, warm presence beside him. Slowly, as he emerged from the clouds of drowsiness, realization struck that it was no dream, but an actual memory. He smiled, breathing in light wafts of jasmine and finally opened his eyes to see Sara's face three inches away. So close, in fact, that he couldn't focus.

"Oh, hey, I didn't mean to wake you." She sounded worried, and he brought a hand up to brush her cheek.

"Hi, beautiful. You OK?"

"Um, yeah. You?"

"Wonderful." A big grin creased his face. He couldn't help it, even if he wanted to. He rolled over to face her. "But I'm a little . . . embarrassed." He pinkened and looked adorably bashful.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I would've liked to have been at least a tiny bit suave, but then I couldn't even get out of my jeans without help."

"I don't want suave; I want you."

He felt so good, he couldn't feel miffed. He squinted at her, trying to hide his amusement.

"Uh . . . maybe that didn't come out quite right." It was Sara's turn to redden with embarrassment.

In his time, Grissom had said a lot of things that hadn't sounded tactless in his head, but somehow morphed into callous insensitivity when spoken out loud. Sara had often borne the brunt of his faux pas; he figured she had plenty of leeway and easily shrugged it off. He moved in for a kiss, which started out gently but soon became very involved.

Finally drawing back, Grissom smiled softly at her and Sara realized that she'd forgotten whatever it was that she'd been concerned about. She was reminded of something else, however. "OK if I use your bathroom?" She was going anyway, but it didn't hurt to ask.

"It's yours."

She looked at him a touch quizzically, but nature was calling very loudly and she had to answer. She untangled herself and slipped out of the bed.

She'd evidently found his pajamas under his pillow and she shrugged into the jacket as she rose. Loose on him, the blue and white stripes billowed around her like a circus tent. He feasted his eyes on her long, long legs as she headed into the bathroom.

Grissom lay back, sighing lightly. They had been so long in getting to this point; for years, no, decades, he'd been in an emotionless limbo. Now he was impatient to solidify things, to prove to her that he was serious, to finally start living – with Sara. He already knew that he wanted her with him always – he had even daydreamed about getting his grandmother's ring out of the bank safe deposit box and asking her . . .

His mind was racing ahead, but he was also certain that he would need to tread softly. He reined in his emotions and forced the logical part of his brain to reflect more calmly. Sara's independence and self-sufficiency had been forced on her early and no matter how much she wanted to be with him – he permitted himself a little shiver of delight – giving up her apartment and the autonomy that entailed would not necessarily be easy for her. He was assuming that she would sometime move in with him, but maybe she'd prefer that they look for a new place together? And another point, he'd lived alone all his adult life; he was doubtless going to have to make adjustments too. He wasn't at all sure how easy he'd be to live with, but he was brimming with the hope that Sara would be willing to try.

Taking baby steps was fine by him as long as they took them together.

They'd already made huge strides tonight and he thought, all things considered, it had gone pretty well. And they could have another try again soon. He grinned at the ceiling, still enjoying the sated lassitude that comes from the release of sexual tension, intermingled with the potent exhilaration of knowing that all his yearning had not been in vain.

Sara returned to his bed, refreshed – she had found a clean towel and washcloth in the capacious cupboard beneath the sink; deferring thoughts of a shower, she had had a thorough wash. She snuggled into Grissom's encircling arm, laying her head on his shoulder.

"I didn't know―"

Sara looked at Grissom's serious face and tried to turn the corners of his mouth up into a smile. He captured her hand and kissed it before clasping it against his heart, and he started again. "I didn't know how good it would be."

"What would be good?"

"Ah . . . moving past my fears and allowing myself to love you; opening up to you, letting you in. Finally accepting that you really want to be with me." He twisted a strand of her hair that had strayed over his shoulder. "How did you know?"

"I -- I didn't _know_ anything." She leaned her head into his stroking hand. "Maybe that's not quite right. I knew I wanted you. But that was only the inspiration, the catalyst. I've learned the hard way that you don't get anything worthwhile without working to make it happen." She pulled back a little and grimaced at him, but not before he'd caught a glimmer of a smile. "Although I admit, you were a harder nut to crack than I'd expected."

He expelled a long breath, almost a sigh, and bit his lip. He didn't want to think about all the time they, _he_ had wasted in getting to this point. He reached out a shaky hand and brushed the curve of her cheek, and she smiled openly now.

"But you came out of your shell eventually. All I had to do was help you, nudge you along."

A long, heated kiss followed. As Grissom drew back, bright blue eyes staring deeply into Sara's chocolate depths, he whispered, "Thank you."

THE END


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